In eight quiet lines, Sara Teasdale records the slow movement of a December day from dawn to early evening. The morning arrives late, as if the day itself hesitates, and the whole scene is drained of color: white snow on willow branches, grey sky, no sun. Even the one sharp noise, a blue jay scolding at noon, only makes the surrounding stillness more noticeable. By five o’clock the light is already almost gone, and the windows are edged with frost like delicate metalwork. The speaker feels not so much sad as hushed—aware of how small and enclosed the human world seems when winter closes in. The mood is still, muted, and faintly lonely, but also attentive: there is quiet beauty in the cold, fading light and the intricate frost.
A December Day — Summary
Dawn turned on her purple pillow And late, late came the winter day, Snow was curved to the boughs of the willow, The sunless world was white and grey. At noon we heard a blue-jay scolding, At five the last thin light was lost From snow-banked windows faintly holding The feathery filigree of frost.