"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 Fields
That Science cannot overtake
But Human Nature feels.

It waits upon the Lawn,
It shows the furthest Tree
Upon the furthest Slope you know
It almost speaks to you.

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.

+ Emily Dickinson

Dickinson’s language is just old enough, and her style just adventurous enough, that a paraphrase can sometimes help — not as a replacement for the original, of course, but rather as a guide with which we can return to the original and enjoy it even more. In this spirit, here’s a paraphrase of “A Light exists in Spring,” one sentence per stanza:

There’s a springtime light that isn’t present during the rest of the year — particularly in early March.

In this light, a distinctive color appears everywhere (say, on the quiet, empty fields), a color science can’t account for, but we can feel nevertheless.

The light lingers on lawns nearby, illuminates trees on slopes far away — almost as though the light is speaking to us, showing us around.

And then, as time passes, this light silently recedes, like the day receding as the Sun sets toward the horizon, or like the light of noon departing for some other place, leaving us behind.

We feel this as a loss; it affects the quality of our contentedness, just as a commercial spirit (“quid pro quo”) would affect the ideally dignified, gracious atmosphere of a sacrament, such as Baptism or Communion.