The poem is built from a few quiet images that seem to drift apart, then land in one small moment: someone holding a piece of fruit. The speaker begins by thinking of far-off India, where morning has already arrived while it is still dark or late where they are. Then comes tomorrow, and a candle that "will be sold" for "the same old light." The candle, an everyday object, is traded for something that never changes, the light we use to see.
What the speaker feels seems to be a calm, attentive wonder. Nothing dramatic happens, yet the poem suggests that the plainest light is enough to make a single fruit in the hand feel vivid and real. The title, "Haecceity," refers to the particular "thisness" of a thing, and the ending fits that idea: after the wide sweep of time and distance, the poem narrows to one object, right here.
The mood is hushed, patient and a little dreamlike, with a gentle sense of gratitude for small things.