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About this Poem 

“Silver Filigree” was published in Nets to Catch the Wind (Harcourt, Brace, 1921).

Silver Filigree

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.

This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on December 8, 2018, by the Academy of American Poets.

This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on December 8, 2018, by the Academy of American Poets.

Elinor Wylie

Elinor Wylie

Elinor Wylie was born in Somerville, New Jersey, on September 7, 1885. 

by this poet

poem
All that I dream
    By day or night
Lives in that stream
    Of lovely light.
Here is the earth,
    And there is the spire;
This is my hearth,
    And that is my fire.
From the sun's dome
    I am shouted proof
That this is my home,
    And that is my roof.
Here is my food,
    And here is my drink,
And I am
poem

I always was afraid of Somes's Pond:
Not the little pond, by which the willow stands,
Where laughing boys catch alewives in their hands
In brown, bright shallows; but the one beyond.
There, when the frost makes all the birches burn
Yellow as cow-lilies, and the pale sky shines
Like a

poem
For this you’ve striven
    Daring, to fail:
Your sky is riven
    Like a tearing veil.

For this, you’ve wasted
    Wings of your youth;
Divined, and tasted
    Bitter springs of truth.

From sand unslakèd
    Twisted strong cords,
And wandered naked
    Among trysted swords.

There’s a word unspoken,
    A knot