The title promises a storm, but the poem stays in the unnerving calm before it. The speaker distrusts that calm. "The soul of suspicion" suggests a mind that can't take silence at face value, and the quiet feels loaded rather than peaceful. Then comes a wry joke: they should hire the speaker at "a company of questions," since doubt is all he seems to have to offer.
The third stanza is stranger. A "well spoken" man who is nonetheless "dead" could be a figure from memory, or a voice that sounds polished but hollow. The poem doesn't say, and that uncertainty is part of its unease.
The closing image is the most striking: something falling and settling "like brisk ice in the discourse of air." It's sharp, cold and a little beautiful, as if hail were joining a conversation with the sky. The mood is edgy, watchful and darkly witty, with the speaker waiting for something to break.