A sadhu, a wandering holy man, is the figure we're meant to imagine here, and the poem catches him at the moment of leaving his cell. The opening line treats the parting almost like a farewell between two people: "I and my cell." The room has been a kind of companion, but it isn't mourned for long.
The speaker admits he has seen the street many times before, so this isn't a new discovery. Yet he is "more and more pleased" with it each time, as if familiarity deepens his delight rather than dulling it. The last line is the surprise. He calls the street "a rank home and bed," and "rank" suggests something foul-smelling or coarse. He doesn't pretend the street is pleasant, but he accepts it as his true shelter.
The mood is calm, plain, and quietly content. There's no complaint, only a sense that giving up comfort brings a kind of freedom.