The speaker imagines hearing about the death of someone she loves in the most casual, impersonal way possible: a neighbor on a subway train is holding a newspaper, and she reads that a man was hit and killed at noon. The man happens to be “you”—the person she is addressing. She insists she would not cry aloud or wring her hands, because such a public place demands composure. Instead, her eyes would fix on small, irrelevant things: the lights rushing past the train, or an ad explaining where to store furs and how to treat hair. The mood is restrained and tense, almost numbed. The quiet shock comes through in that final detail—her mind would cling to trivia to keep from fully absorbing the loss.
Sonnets 5 — Summary
If I should learn, in some quite casual way, That you were gone, not to return again-- Read from the back-page of a paper, say, Held by a neighbor in a subway train, How at the corner of this avenue And such a street (so are the papers filled) A hurrying man--who happened to be you-- At noon to-day had happened to be killed, I should not cry aloud--I could not cry Aloud, or wring my hands in such a place-- I should but watch the station lights rush by With a more careful interest on my face, Or raise my eyes and read with greater care Where to store furs and how to treat the hair.