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.