"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 that can help us understand and appreciate the original, enjoying 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, in early March, that isn’t present the rest of the year.

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

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

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

We feel this as a loss, a feeling of discontent, just as a commercial spirit (“quid pro quo”) would affect the gracious atmosphere of a sacrament, such as Baptism or Communion.

Want to journey through Lent with Emily as your guide? Check out SALT’s printable devotional, “Emily Dickinson and Poetry of Lent.”