“A Light exists in Spring…”

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 (Poem 812)

This beautiful poem tries to portray something that cannot be described, but only felt: the light that briefly arrives in early spring
It is mysterious, unique, and its extraordinary color cannot be defined by the tools of science.
We never get to see it up close: what we can catch is only a glimpse of it, on a tree or on a far landscape, and in those rare moments it almost seems to communicate with us.
Its life is short, and when the days get longer it goes away in silence, leaving a sense of loss that affects our joy for the arrival of summer.

C’è una luce in primavera
non presente in nessun altro
periodo dell’anno –
non appena marzo arriva
là fuori un colore inonda
i campi solitari –
che la scienza non sa esprimere
ma la natura umana coglie.

Indugia sul prato,
mette in mostra l’albero più remoto
sul più remoto dei declivi
e sembra quasi parlarti.

Poi quando gli orizzonti si dileguano
o i mezzogiorni riparano lontano,
senza suono
passa e noi restiamo –

Un senso di perdita
intacca la nostra gioia
come se una profanazione all’improvviso
s’insinuasse in qualcosa di sacro–

48 thoughts on ““A Light exists in Spring…”

      1. Cydonian Spring with her attendant train,
        Maelids and water-girls,
        Stepping beneath a boisterous wind from Thrace,
        Throughout this sylvan place
        Spreads the bright tips,
        And every vine-stock is
        Clad in new brilliancies.
        And wild desire
        Falls like black lightning.
        bewildered heart,
        Though every branch have back what last year lost,
        She, who moved here amid the cyclamen,
        Moves only now a clinging tenuous ghost.

        Ezra Pound, March 1915

        Liked by 3 people

  1. Absolutely wonderful, Luisa. You write so beautifully about these moments in spring. These moments where you might here whisper and see the sheer light. Moments like these are often greater than words so
    Emily Dickenson’s poem catches it beautifully. 🌱💕.


    Liked by 3 people

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