Noon in this short poem feels less like a bright peak than a hollow. The speaker marks the time as "a little past twelve," just after the day's high point, and then calls it "a good pit to keep an hour in." That image is odd and a little unsettling: the hour becomes something stored in a hole, kept the way you might keep something you don't quite want to lose or can't get rid of.
The last lines turn inward. The speaker looks for "sign" of something, perhaps meaning or a message, but finds nothing beyond "the milk of my eyes." That could suggest blurred or clouded vision, as if the glare of midday has washed everything out. Judging by the imagery, the speaker seems still, a bit blank, and quietly resigned. The mood is dry and suspended: bright light, but no revelation, just an hour sitting there, empty and waiting to pass.