The poem begins in a drowsy, half-asleep state, where big thoughts come easily. The speaker drifts toward the idea that love must be what moves the sun and the other stars to their "new mansions", a grand, almost medieval picture of a universe held together by love. Then the scale shrinks sharply: the speaker and someone else are moving house tomorrow, to a new flat. The title, "Emigration", gives the small move a larger name, as if changing flats were a journey as momentous as the stars' travels.
The speaker seems hopeful at first. The new place promises "new friends and new furniture", and the repeated "new" sounds like someone talking themselves into optimism. The ending punctures that. "And new silverfish" is a quiet, funny jolt, and the ellipsis before it builds the pause for the joke. The mood is gentle and wry. Love is real and large, but so are the small annoyances that follow us into every new home.