The speaker describes a pond in early spring, still bare in places but starting to stir. The rushes are gray, the bushes have no buds, yet sunlight falls generously and birdsong fills the air. He lingers there, watching frogs and a water-hen that returns his gaze, and notices blackbird and thrush nests that will soon disappear under new leaves. The scene feels gentle and full of growth.
But the final lines shift. Alongside the sweetness of the birdsong, the speaker senses a cold, shadowy presence. It seems to draw near, then pull back as if afraid of him—yet he admits the fear is his own. The mood is quiet and observant, with a faint undertone of unease, as if the pond is both welcoming and strangely alive in a way he cannot fully understand.