The speaker begins with a quiet vow: to learn the one sound that every other sound is singing. It's a strange, hopeful ambition, as if all the noise of the world were variations on a single note, and the speaker wants to hear it plainly.
Then the poem turns toward two people, "you and I," who have inherited "a ruin." Nothing is explained, but the tone is tender and fragile. A mere "half a kiss" could undo the speaker, which suggests how raw and close to breaking they feel. The ruin might be a damaged relationship or a broken world, though the poem leaves that open.
The ending shifts to humble, homely images. "Music without music" and the old pot that "must know / a better supper" suggest that wisdom lies in simplicity and in what is worn and well used. The mood is gentle and searching, a mix of grief and quiet optimism, with a hope that something humble might still nourish us.