Sara Teasdale’s speaker is talking quietly to someone who once understood her completely. Whatever she felt—gay or heartbroken, luminous or dull—that person could ease the fever out of the mood and give it back to her more beautiful. That is the memory at the center of the poem.
Later, she tried to belong with other people. She broke bread with them, drank wine, and played the part of a happy guest. Yet in the middle of that social warmth she still felt lonely, because she remembered the one who had seen her inner life clearly. The closing lines carry a quiet certainty: the heart does not belong to whoever is nearest or most pleasant company; it belongs to the one who knew it best. The mood is tender and wistful, grateful for that rare understanding but shadowed by its absence.