Someone asks a stranger a simple, huge question: what should love be called? Instead of answering, the stranger recites "the whole book" and then walks into court. The reply is all doctrine and law, a lot of talk that never touches the question. Love gets handed over to institutions, to scripture and judgment.
Then something odd happens. A drum passes, beating in a "strange manner," with only an occasional single stroke. It's the only moment in the poem that feels like an answer, though it isn't one in words. The sparse, irregular beat suggests that love may be something you notice in a pause or a lone sound rather than something you can name.
The speaker watches and stays silent. That silence reads as puzzlement, maybe respect. The mood is quiet and a little eerie, like a dream you can't quite explain. The poem seems to say that some questions are better met with wonder than with a speech.