Silver Filigree

by

Elinor Wylie


The icicles wreathing

On trees in festoon

Swing, swayed to our breathing:

They're made of the moon.


She's a pale, waxen taper;

And these seem to drip

Transparent as paper

From the flame of her tip.


Molten, smoking a little,

Into crystal they pass;

Falling, freezing, to brittle

And delicate glass.


Each a sharp-pointed flower,

Each a brief stalactite

Which hangs for an hour

In the blue cave of night.



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