At first the speaker sounds certain: she says she is “free of love,” like a bird flying south in autumn—swift, intent, and glad to leave behind the “passion of April.” The mood is cool and self-possessed, full of relief and deliberate lightness. She listens to music without being stirred.
But the last lines quietly undo that confidence. If he returned and looked at her deeply, she admits, she would “awake and remember” that she is her lover’s. The freedom is real on the surface but fragile underneath; it depends on absence, not indifference. The poem leaves a bittersweet aftertaste—she wants to be free, yet she knows one look could pull her back.