Rosemary is a herb often tied to remembrance, and the poem leans on that link. The speaker imagines shadows carrying its scent, and the smell seems to stir up memories that can't quite be spoken. The word "stammering" makes those memories feel halting and half-lost, as if the mind keeps reaching for something and only catching pieces.
The images pull in two directions. Beauty burns bright "in the grave," and light shines "through the fog," so something lovely survives inside loss and confusion. The last two lines step back and state the idea plainly: tragedy is universal, even when no one knows about it. The speaker seems to feel a quiet kind of sorrow, but also a sense of shared humanity, since unseen pain still counts. The mood is hushed, wistful, and a little haunted, though the glowing imagery keeps it from turning wholly bleak. It reads like a small moment of mourning that finds some comfort in how common grief is.