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Orla Breslin, Ireland


A light exists in spring

by Emily Dickinson


A light exists in spring

Not present on the year

At any other period.

When March is scarcely here


A color stands abroad

On solitary hills

That science cannot overtake,

But human nature feels.


It waits upon the lawn;

It shows the furthest tree

Upon 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 loss

Affecting our content,

As trade had suddenly encroached

Upon a sacrament.


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