The title promises peace, but the speaker doesn't sound peaceful. The poem is only five lines long, and it feels like the worn-out report of someone who has been through too much. "Twenty-five ships, and we could not / make an end of Monday" suggests a huge effort that still can't finish a single day. Time seems to drag, as if the ending the title announces never quite arrives.
Even reaching land brings no relief. The speaker says "we met with castles," which hints at new obstacles or fortified places rather than a welcome. Their rest is "troubled," so the body may stop while the mind does not. The final line is the oddest and most affecting: "I mourn the death of my bed." It's a small, almost comic grief, but it works because the speaker is so tired that the simple comfort of home feels lost. The mood is weary, dazed, and quietly sad, with a dry humor underneath.