Two short stanzas, and the whole scene fits in a bedroom. Morning arrives "almost as a pall," a word that usually means a cloth laid over a coffin. Dawn here doesn't bring cheer or warmth. It settles over the bed like a covering, heavy and quiet. The image hints at something close to loss or stillness, though the poem never says what lies beneath.
The second stanza turns to the speaker's own body. Their eyes "fail" after staring too long at "white uniformity," probably the pale light, the sheets, or both. The title, "Blinded," fits: sameness can overwhelm just as darkness can. With nothing to break up the whiteness, the eye has nothing to hold onto. The mood is hushed, tired, and a little uneasy. The speaker seems worn down rather than panicked, caught in a blank moment where the day begins without any sense of relief.