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Home  »  Poetry: A Magazine of Verse  »  Elinor Wylie

Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.

Silver Filagree

Elinor Wylie

From “Still Colors”

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.