The speaker is lying back in a state of apparent calm, resting on "the green labor of the year." That phrase is a clever knot: the growth of plants is work, and the speaker settles into it like a bed. But the title, "Unrest," warns us that the calm won't hold.
Then things turn odd. The marsh walks in through the door, as if the wet, wild outdoors has become a guest, and it doesn't seem to recognize the speaker. That could suggest a person who has lost their place in the natural world, or someone who feels like a stranger in their own home. The final image, a letter from the elves written in angry ink, is playful and unsettling at once. It feels like a fairy tale gone sour, or a dream where the rules shift without warning.
The mood is dreamy and uneasy. The poem never explains itself, and that gap leaves the reader as unsettled as the speaker.