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.
About this Poem
“Silver Filigree” was published in Nets to Catch the Wind (Harcourt, Brace, 1921).
Elinor Wylie was born in Somerville, New Jersey, on September 7, 1885.
Date Published: 1921-01-01
Source URL: https://poets.org/poem/silver-filigree