A sleepless night is the center of this short poem. The speaker lies on a pillow, caught in a feverish kind of wanting. The poem never says what is desired, and that vagueness is part of its pull. Desire here is "sweating," a physical, uncomfortable thing, and it keeps the mind busy, "inhaling" new sketches drawn by the "mind's pen." Images come one after another, "image by image," and the night slips away through them.
The last stanza shifts from the bedroom to the outside world. The speaker doesn't know how the sun came up, only that it did, and that it looks hazy, as if seen through tired eyes. That suggests the hours of restless imagining have blurred the line between night and morning.
The mood is quiet, drowsy and slightly dreamlike. There's longing in it, but also a sense of drifting, of time passing without the speaker quite noticing.