Hazel Hall’s speaker imagines her song as a sword that has now gone still. It used to have a “flashing tongue of steel,” cutting through old shadows and keeping darkness from closing around her heart. But she has chosen—or forced herself—to silence it. She says she made a scabbard with her own will to cover the blade, which suggests enormous self-control and perhaps a painful decision to stop fighting out loud.
The mood is quiet but tense, full of restrained feeling. There is grief in the stillness, as if something vital has been put away. The sword-song was aggressive and protective, yet it also kept wounds open by not letting darkness heal. Now that it is sheathed, the speaker may be trying to let herself rest, but the loss of that fierce voice feels heavy and uncertain.