The speaker addresses a mountain, or a rocky coastline that seems to have a mountain's presence, and tries to reach it. The landscape looks tired and distant. Its rocks "despoil the sea," and the whole scene feels worn out, as if the land and water have been separated after a long embrace. The mountain's "face" is lined, but the speaker says this comes from squinting at the sun, not from age. It's a small, human detail that makes the mountain feel almost like a person.
The speaker feels frustrated and tender at once. The mountain's glance is "nondescript," and she can't "spell" its silence, meaning she can't read or translate it. She also refuses to copy its stillness. Where the mountain is patient, she has to be hurried, "precipitate with love." The mood is quiet and wistful, with a note of longing: love here is urgent, and the thing she loves hardly responds.