light and dark alone are waste.
snow drifts through all the parted streets
where in the cloudshine atoms meet
and whirl along a pearly space
your hands are in the parallel
of separated beams that lie
falling upon the dusk, the light
of streetlamps, falling where snow falls.
and we live in the play of dark
fastening cold to circling cold
that no sun's light embrace could hold
or fuse in any brilliant spark
and in this whirling of our fears
the beam within the fall of snow
and all the dark around still grow
luminous with the salt of tears.