III
A light exists in springNot present on the yearAt any other period.When March is scarcely here
A color stands abroadOn solitary hillsThat science cannot overtake,But human nature feels.
It waits upon the lawn;It shows the furthest treeUpon the furthest slope we know;It almost speaks to me.
Then, as horizons step,Or noons report away,Without the formula of sound,It passes, and we stay:
A quality of lossAffecting our content,As trade had suddenly encroachedUpon a sacrament.