by Elinor Wylie (1885 - 1928)

Silver filigree
Language: English 
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.

Authorship

Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive)


Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]

This text was added to the website: 2017-11-13
Line count: 16
Word count: 70