The poem moves from small human efforts to a huge, uncaring sky. It begins with a kind of instruction: we have to look for order in the crowd of ordinary things around us. The speaker then looks at a private letter and compares it to a well-kept grave, as if something once alive and intimate is now neatly preserved but silent.
Then the view lifts upward. The wind has no knowledge of sex or fear, the two forces that so often drive people. The stars follow nothing but a barking dog, a strangely small and earthly sound standing in for any grand design.
The mood is quiet, cool, and a little melancholy. The speaker seems to accept that meaning is something we make rather than something we're given, yet the dog's bark adds a faint, almost tender note. The title, "Leveler," fits: death, nature, and the sky treat everything the same, and the poem sets human order beside that sameness.