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 MORE ANCIENT MARINER by BLISS CARMAN RECESSIONAL by RUDYARD KIPLING BATTLE OF IVRY by THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY THE PILLAR OF THE CLOUD by JOHN HENRY NEWMAN LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY |