Blanche Taylor Dickinson, "To an Icicle" (1927)
CHILLED into a serenity
As rigid as your pose
You linger trustingly,
But a gutter waits for you.
Your elegance does not secure
You favors with the sun.
He is not one to pity fragileness.
He thinks all cheeks should burn
And feel how tears can run.
Published in Caroling Dusk, 1927