Classic Poem

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.