Three short lines, and the whole poem hangs on one odd comparison: the day is "a pan of real morning." Think of a pan as something you hold out, tilted slightly, to see what's in it. Maybe it's the kind of pan a prospector uses to sift river silt for gold. That would fit the title, "Prospect," which can mean both a view and the hope of finding something valuable. The day becomes a shallow dish where light and promise settle.
The word "real" matters. It suggests that some mornings feel fake, rushed, or half-asleep, and that this one is the genuine article, clear and worth noticing. The speaker doesn't say "I feel happy." The feeling comes through in the tone, which is quiet, attentive, and a little amazed. The mood is fresh and hopeful, with a plain, earthy kind of wonder. Because the poem is so spare, it almost makes you slow down and look at the morning the way the speaker does, as something to be examined and valued.