Five short lines hold a whole night and its aftermath. The first two put us in the middle of a carnival: heat, a crowd, and something the speaker calls "the call of stupefaction," a pull toward being dazed and swept up, past thinking. "For hours we were out" suggests a long stretch of that giddy, overwhelmed state, shared with others.
Then the poem turns. The speaker says they "endeavored to move," a stiff, effortful word that sounds almost comic next to the wild scene before it. Now, in bed, movement is impossible. The body that was carried along by the throng has finally given out.
The mood is a mix of tiredness and quiet afterglow. Nothing is explained, and the speaker doesn't say whether the night was joyful or too much. That leaves the feeling of lying still while the noise and heat linger, stunned, spent, and a little amazed.