Icicles

Silver Filigree   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.