Silver Filigree

by
 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.

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