The poem opens with a blunt verdict: a life can be tragic not because of what happened, but because of what never did. From there it builds its picture through the image of a book. The leaves are cut and the pages skimmed, so the words have been read, but only on the surface. Beyond them lie endless blank flyleaves, fanned open with no one to hold them, a picture of unused possibility.
The speaker seems to look back on a life of near-misses in speech and feeling. Words spoken hoping for joy came out underripe, while words spoken fearing pain turned out bitter. Neither could be taken in. The last lines suggest a message might finally have been written, yet it only puts off what needed saying and sends us back to what was already said.
The mood is quiet, wistful and resigned. Nothing dramatic occurs, and that is the point: the sadness comes from silence, delay and a sense of lost chances.