The speaker begins with a confession: they chose a void, some kind of emptiness or numbness, and now call that choice false. The word "falseness" suggests a kind of self-deception, as if hollowness was a shelter that never really held up. There is regret here, but it is quiet and unshowy.
Then the poem turns on "but." The sun is good, a plain, almost childlike statement, and it pulls the speaker back toward the living world. Yet the next line is careful: nature "is no creed." The speaker doesn't want to swap one rigid answer for another, so the natural world offers comfort without becoming a belief system. The last lines widen out. Grief "runs through many," so the speaker's pain is shared rather than private, and that can feel like company.
The mood is spare, tentative, and gently consoling. The title fits: these are small consolations, not cures, offered with restraint.