The speaker opens with a surprising confession: nothing is worth more than error. Mistakes, the poem suggests, are where real living happens. The next lines push the same way, putting the wish to live ahead of any duty to be brave. Courage here sounds like something you perform for others, while desire is simply what drives you.
Then the poem turns to the old, who "must suspect" that the heart's wild motions have only two uses: love or "hatching," a word that hints at new beginnings and mess. The closing image is the best one. A cellar door long kept locked suddenly moves, and half the wine has already been drunk "as a remedy." Something buried and held back has come loose, and the cure is indulgence.
The mood is wry, loose, and a little reckless, but with a quiet ache underneath. It feels like someone granting themselves permission, late but not too late, to stop being careful. The title suggests the voice of the poet Rumi, though I'd read that as a tone rather than a claim about the poem's source.