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.
Silver Filigree
Elinor Morton Wylie
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Poem topics: flower, moon, night, blue, sharp, flame, paper, delicate, glass, crystal, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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