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<h3> <SPAN id="silver"></SPAN> SILVER FILIGREE<br/> </h3>
<p class="poem">
The icicles wreathing<br/>
On trees in festoon<br/>
Swing, swayed to our breathing:<br/>
They're made of the moon.<br/></p>
<p class="poem">
She's a pale, waxen taper;<br/>
And these seem to drip<br/>
Transparent as paper<br/>
From the flame of her tip.<br/></p>
<p class="poem">
Molten, smoking a little,<br/>
Into crystal they pass;<br/>
Falling, freezing, to brittle<br/>
And delicate glass.<br/></p>
<p class="poem">
Each a sharp-pointed flower,<br/>
Each a brief stalactite<br/>
Which hangs for an hour<br/>
In the blue cave of night.<br/></p>
<p><br/><br/><br/></p>
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