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Poem by Elinor Wylie

Silver Filigree

The icicles wreathing 
On trees in festoon 
Swing, swayed to our breathing: 
Theyre made of the moon.

Shes 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.

Elinor Wylie

Elinor Wylie's other poems:
  1. Madmans Song
  2. Primavera in the North
  3. Curious Circumstance
  4. The Lost Path
  5. Venetian Interior

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