Elinor Wylie’s “Silver Filigree” turns a winter scene into something quietly magical. The speaker watches icicles hanging from trees, but sees them not as ordinary frozen water; they are made of the moon. The moon becomes a pale candle, and the icicles seem to drip from its flame like melting wax, cooling into fragile glass. The imagery is delicate and precise—each icicle is a sharp flower or a tiny stalactite in the blue cave of night. The speaker’s feeling is one of hushed wonder, treating the cold as beautiful rather than harsh. The mood is still, luminous, and a little dreamlike, as if the natural world is a secret artwork. There is also a gentle awareness that this beauty is fleeting: each shape hangs for only an hour. The short lines and soft rhymes add to that suspended, glassy feeling.
Silver Filigree — Summary
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.