In a cold December dusk, the speaker watches the last red sunlight fade behind a hill lined with old bare trees. Against the pale sky, their tangled branches look like an army holding lances; then, as the light softens, he imagines them transformed into something grander—queens passing by with silver light at their feet, escorted by solemn knights. The ordinary winter landscape turns ceremonial and strange. The speaker is moved by how lovely this bare, gray scene is, more than the sounds of April, June’s early dew, or even an autumn moon. The mood is quiet, still, and a little awed: a moment where cold December feels more enchanting than the showier seasons.
Queens — Summary
The red sun stared unwinking at the East Then slept under a cloak of hodden gray; The rimy fields held the last light of day, A little tender yet. And I remember How black against the pale and wintry west Stood the confused great army of old trees, Topping that lean, enormous-shouldered hill With crossing lances shivering and then still. I looked as one that sees Queens passing by and lovelier than he dreamed, With fringe of silver light following their feet, And all those lances vail'd, and solemn Knights Watching their Queens as with eyes grave and sweet They left for the gray fields those airy heights. Nothing had lovelier seemed-- Not April's noise nor the early dew of June, Nor the calm languid cow-eyed Autumn Moon, Nor ruffling woods the greenest I remember-- Than this pale light and dark of cold December.