Silver Filigree

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.