The speaker is stuck in a heavy, ashen stillness, and wants something to break it. They long for the sharp ring of a bell or the shiver of a drumskin, anything that would make them feel alive and moved. The title suggests why: the speaker feels like an hourglass whose sand has run down, with thoughts that are "through with falling."
Outside, a lilac still looks green against bare gray trees, as if summer might never end. The speaker seems to push back against that illusion, suggesting that the tangle of bare twigs is no disgrace but "the soul's own map." Winter, or age, becomes something to read rather than fear. A sigh seems to approach from the edge of the world, a quiet sense of something larger arriving.
The ending slows everything down. Shadows blur "grain by grain" and the sun sinks into a "white sand sky." The mood is hushed, weary and reflective, with a calm acceptance of time passing.