The throb of it.

I love words

because sometimes they themselves

are more beautiful 

than the thing they're describing.

Example.

There were none of the signs of spring

for which I used to watch in Virginia,

no budding woods or blooming gardens.

There was only--spring itself;

the throb of it,

the light restlessness,

the vital essence of it everywhere:

in the sky, in the swift clouds,

in the pale sunshine,

and in the warm, high wind.