Taken and given things both stay with us, the speaker suggests, and neither can be shaken off. Stolen things return in disguise, "as beggars / pleading for your virtue," so the past arrives looking harmless, even pitiful, while quietly demanding something back. Even what we give away doesn't vanish. It "lingers like fog," a soft, hazy presence we have to walk through with our lanterns held high.
The middle of the poem turns to travel. The world is round, so you can go miles and still end up "staring / in the mirror," facing yourself. Running away just brings you back around. The final lines sharpen the warning: what you steal "will likely steal you," and it happens "when you aren't looking / for escape or redemption."
The speaker sounds calm but cautionary, like someone who has learned this the hard way. The mood is uneasy and quietly haunting, with a sense that our actions follow us in the dark.