The speaker addresses an icicle as if it were a person: poised, elegant, and strangely trusting in its frozen stillness. But that composure is temporary. A gutter waits below, and the sun will not spare something so delicate just because it is beautiful. In fact, the sun seems almost harsh, insisting that everything—even a fragile icicle—should learn what it is to burn and to weep as it melts. The speaker’s tone is a mix of admiration and pity, maybe even a little gentle irony. She sees the icicle’s beauty clearly, but she also sees how little that beauty can do to protect it. The mood is quiet and bittersweet, like watching something lovely in winter that you know cannot last. It captures that moment when cold stillness gives way to warmth and running water.
To an Icicle — Summary
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.