The poem watches a royal court through the eyes of the king's barber, someone close enough to touch power but not part of it. He notices "the results of chance," a phrase that hints he sees how much of court life is accident rather than destiny. Because he is "alone in his private wonder," he keeps these thoughts to himself.
What he marvels at comes in three small observations. Court rituals multiply daily, as if ceremony feeds on itself. The queen's hand "challenges the wind," a striking image that makes her seem either grand or absurdly overreaching. Then the last line turns sober: a skull "is dead to prayers," meaning that death ignores all the pomp, and perhaps all the pleading too.
The mood is hushed, wry, and a little uneasy. The speaker doesn't shout criticism. He simply notices, and the poem suggests that a humble observer may see more truth about power and mortality than the royals do.