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.
- by Elinor Wylie (1885 - 1928), appears in Nets to Catch the Wind, first published 1921 [author's text not yet checked against a primary source]
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive)
- by Gary Bachlund (b. 1947), "Silver filigree", 2012 [medium voice and piano] [ sung text checked 1 time]
Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]
This text was added to the website: 2017-11-13
Line count: 16
Word count: 70