In just four lines, the speaker sketches a life of comfortable, aimless excess. He stays in bed until noon, then spends the evening eating until nine. The days seem to have no purpose beyond these two activities, and the plain, flat way he lists them makes the routine feel mechanical rather than enjoyable.
The last two lines turn the poem. He is "examining the miscarriage / of satisfaction," as if he's studying something that was meant to be born and never was. All that sleeping and eating should bring contentment, yet it doesn't. The word "miscarriage" is a heavy, painful choice, and it hints at loss and disappointment beneath the lazy surface. The title, "Ennui," names the feeling: a weary boredom that indulgence can't cure. The mood is listless and quietly bleak, with a dry, self-aware humor in the speaker's detached, almost clinical gaze at his own emptiness.