Three short lines hold a small, surprising idea: that a dog's behavior can be a kind of translation. The "wild eloquence" of the sea, its roar, its restless motion, its sheer size, seems too big for people to answer in words. The dog does it instead. Running, barking, sniffing, plunging at the waves, it turns that overwhelming energy into something simple and physical.
The speaker is mostly watching, and seems delighted. There's affection in the humor of "translated into dog," which treats the animal as an interpreter who understands the sea better than we do. The word "wild" links the two: the dog is a little wild too, unembarrassed by its own excitement.
The last line, "a walk by the sea," brings us back to something ordinary. That contrast sets the mood: playful, relaxed, and quietly appreciative. The poem suggests that joy in nature doesn't need fancy language, just a willingness to be fully present.