Emily Dickinson (1830–86). Complete Poems. 1924.
Part Two: NatureLXXXV
A
Not present on the year
At any other period.
When March is scarcely here
On solitary hills
That silence cannot overtake,
But human nature feels.
It shows the furthest tree
Upon the furthest slope we know;
It almost speaks to me.
Or noons report away,
Without the formula of sound,
It passes, and we stay:
Affecting our content,
As trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a sacrament.