The title points to grave goods, the objects buried with a person for use in the afterlife. The poem begins with a figure waiting in a boat, a messenger who seems to be a ferryman of the dead, and who is already "expecting us." That calm, patient image makes death feel less like a sudden blow and more like an appointment.
The speaker then pauses over a strange thought: how different "the old" are from "the dead." Growing old, the poem suggests, still keeps us tied to life and to our belongings, while death cuts all of that off. The last lines turn slightly wry and unsettled. The speaker imagines a world made only of "my things," and a hope that they will pass along with him. Judging by the tone, he half knows this is a small, human kind of vanity, or perhaps a comfort. The mood is quiet, thoughtful and gently ironic, with a faint chill underneath. It asks what we cling to, and whether any of it can go with us.