Time Exposure

Never can spring be known so well
As in this wicked dark December,
Nor touched-all emerald and limber-
As in this winter citadel.
The expatriate, in every country,
Encountering alien custom, presses
More closely to the land that graces
His memory, secret, beyond sentry;
The lover in the crowded room
Empty of the one essential,
Creates the missing face, more vital
More fresh than when it touched his own.
So now the death chill at the core
As if the weather struck with fangs,
So now the absence of all wings
Upon the harsh and scentless air,
Propose to the sick heart a stir
More subtle and a texture brighter
Than it has known or will encounter
In any earthly calendar;
The positive
Formed from this evil negative,
Shows what no year will ever give:
Spring's absolute.