Someone is speaking to a loved one who has died, most likely a child, judging by the blanket and the toys. The poem never says this outright, but those small objects suggest it. The speaker has touched the "face of your soul" and found it cold and hard, like stone. That odd, striking phrase makes the loss feel both spiritual and painfully physical.
The speaker's feelings come out in quiet questions. Does the blanket still keep you warm? Do the toys still make you happy? These are tender, slightly helpless wonderings, the kind of care a parent or guardian can't switch off. "I still love you," the speaker says, but the only reply is silence.
That silence is the poem's final image: a small patch of quiet beside the orange tree, untouched by people coming and going. The mood is hushed and sorrowful, yet also gentle. The place seems peaceful, even if the speaker cannot be.