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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=383730" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Silver Filigree</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=383730" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">The icicles wreathing <br>On trees in festoon <br>Swing, swayed to our breathing: <br>They're made of the moon.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=383730" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">She's a pale, waxen taper; <br>And these seem to drip <br>Transparent as paper <br>From the flame of her tip.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=383730" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Molten, smoking a little, <br>Into crystal they pass; <br>Falling, freezing, to brittle <br>And delicate glass.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=383730" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Each a sharp-pointed flower, <br>Each a brief stalactite <br>Which hangs for an hour <br>In the blue cave of night.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Elinor+Morton+Wylie">Elinor Morton Wylie</a></strong></div>

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