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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A CHANNEL PASSAGE by RUPERT BROOKE A PETITION by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH THE WORLD'S WAY by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH THE MOTHER-FAITH by EVERARD JACK APPLETON WITH ILLUSTRATION TO GRAY'S POEMS by WILLIAM BLAKE THE RED SUNSETS, 1883 (2) by MATHILDE BLIND |