A person rests in the shade of a tree while the hours slip past quietly, almost unnoticed, like birds in flight. The scene is calm but drowsy: clouds drift, night falls, the moon looks worn. Then the dreamer wakes and feels the shock of age—the realization that time has not simply paused. The day he thought was already lost is truly gone.
The mood is wistful and melancholy. There is no dramatic event, just the slow, gentle movement of nature against a life that has drifted too easily. The title, “The Unthrift,” suggests someone who has squandered something precious, and here the squandered thing is time itself. The lines leave a quiet ache: comfort and shade, yes, but also the cost of all those silent, swift hours.