Most poems treat dawn as a fresh start. This one turns that idea upside down. The speaker opens with three blunt lines, "Dawn, / Another soul, / Another victim," as if each morning claims someone new. Sunrise isn't a comfort here; it's something that happens to people.
The middle stanza shows how the speaker's view has shifted. The sun's colors were once "delightfully golden," a warm, hopeful image, but now they're crimson. The sun shrinks to "a circle with a red like cherries," which sounds almost sweet until you remember the red also suggests blood or burning. That tension between a pretty image and a dark feeling runs through the whole poem.
The ending flips the usual order: instead of the sun chasing away darkness, hell is the one waiting for it to rise. The mood is weary and bleak. The speaker seems stuck in a loop where every day brings the same dread, and the repeated "Dawn" makes that cycle feel inescapable.