The speaker is a man shut away from the world, and the poem reads like scattered thoughts from inside that isolation. Night arrives "like a severe fly," an odd, irritating image that makes darkness feel less like peace and more like a buzzing nuisance. His days are narrow: an ugly street and a couple of pigeons, nothing more.
Then the view over the fields stirs a memory of shooting, which suggests a more active life he has lost. The lines about a "pretty wife" who "lies with / so many lies" are ambiguous. They could point to a marriage soured by deceit, or to the habit of lying in general, and the poem doesn't settle it. The break in the middle of the phrase makes the word "lies" echo uncomfortably.
The ending is clipped. He retreats to his chamber until midnight, and the word "grace" hangs alone, perhaps as a small relief, perhaps ironically. The mood is bleak, restless, and quietly bitter.