The title promises a gentle love of nature, but the poem quickly turns that expectation strange. In the first lines the fields are almost animal: they "bite themselves full" of "mutinies," as if the landscape were restless and ready to rebel against order. Nature here isn't calm scenery. It is crowded, hungry and unruly.
The sea gets shrunk down in the second stanza, called "nothing / but a country wine." That could mean something small and homely, something you sip, or it could suggest the speaker's dizzy, slightly tipsy way of seeing. Either way, the huge becomes a drink.
Then the speaker turns to appetite. They would eat "the worst earth," even when it is "slippery with journal ink." Love of nature becomes a wish to consume it, and to mix it with writing. The mood is playful, greedy and a little absurd, as if the speaker's devotion is both sincere and mocking itself.