SILVER FILIGREE

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.