English poem
SILVER FILIGREE
by Elinor Wylie (1885–1928)
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.