The speaker looks back on a love that has ended, or at least changed beyond recovery. The opening image of rain weighing down a name suggests how heavy memory can be. The speaker lists what they once promised not to lose: the silence, the songs, the nights of tangled bodies they wished would last forever.
Then the poem turns. "All things move toward their end," the speaker admits, but time hasn't taken everything, so there is no need to forget. Letting go and remembering are allowed to sit side by side.
The moon in the final lines carries this idea. Some nights it is hidden, others it shines, and its silver light echoes the past. The word "deluded" is striking: the speaker sees that those golden mornings may have rested on illusion, yet still calls them "content." The French epigraph, which roughly says you can't live on love and fresh water alone, adds a note of hard reality. The mood is gentle, wistful and accepting rather than bitter.