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Not present on the year
At any other period.
When March is scarcely here
A color stands abroad
On solitary hills
That silence 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.
E. Dickenson
p.s. Is that a Point Loma Parrot??? Yum, I'm drooling!
Luv,
Skittles, The Huntress
The Whole Kitten Kaboodle
1 comment:
That is such a wonderful poem! It really makes me feel the greatness of spring.
Latte
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