Few poems say so much in four short lines. The speaker is an insomniac, and the opening claim, "morning is a lie," suggests that daylight offers no real relief. Morning may promise a fresh start, but for someone who hasn't slept, it feels false, a story everyone else believes. Then comes the strange, almost circular line "night will make night": darkness seems to reproduce itself, as if the night is feeding on its own length and refusing to end.
The second stanza turns inward. The speaker continues "alone," yet the head is "full of my own multitude." That phrase is the poem's richest moment. Being alone doesn't mean being quiet; the mind is crowded with thoughts, memories, and versions of the self, all talking at once. The feeling is weary and isolated, but also stubbornly persistent, since "I continue" suggests simply carrying on. The mood is bleak and hushed, with a faint, odd intimacy in how the speaker keeps company with their own restless mind.