Walter de la Mare speaks directly to the eyes, calling them strange devices. They separate the person who sees from the world seen, yet they also form a kind of road toward all the splendor and pride of earthly life. That road, though, only lies before the traveler. He can look along it toward a sweet, alluring place where he longs to be, but he is held back, bound hand and foot. As night closes in, he is left with vision alone, never arrival.
The mood is quietly mournful and wondering. Eyes give us beauty and desire, but they also keep us at a distance from what we crave. The poem suggests that sight is both a gift and a kind of longing—an aching gap between the self and the world.