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.
This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on December 8, 2018, by the Academy of American Poets.