Poem by Elinor Wylie

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.

1. In Our Content, before the Autumn Came
2. Upon Your Heart, Which Is.the Heart of All
3. The Little Beauty That I Was Allowed
4. Absent Thee from Felicity Awhile
5. The Broken Man

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