The speaker describes a quiet field with a single sycamore, a place that feels almost magical and belongs to them alone. They love it so much that they say they want to rest there after death. Sitting at the tree, they imagine it as a throne, and the view over the land becomes a kingdom they rule from a grand palace.
The last stanza shifts from childlike imagination to old age. The speaker, now growing old "as most rulers do," lets go of the crown and looks at the view one more time. They whisper the story of the place, which nobody else knows, and the poem ends by repeating its opening line, as if coming full circle.
The mood is peaceful, nostalgic, and a little wistful. The speaker feels free and content here, but there is also a gentle sadness about time passing and a secret that may fade with them.