The speaker of "Vagabond" is content with very little. The opening lines admit a small disappointment: there is no road into the wood, only a decent field. But the poem doesn't linger on that loss. It turns the field into something quietly large, "finite as a map / of the infinite," a limited space that still points toward something endless.
From there the speaker makes a kind of vow: to desire only what he already has. The list is modest, a glass of liquor and a bit of meat. These are simple pleasures, stated without apology. What he asks for beyond them is time, enough of it to "go / where nobody else is."
The mood is calm, self-sufficient and a little wry. The speaker seems to value solitude and freedom over comfort or company. Being a vagabond here isn't presented as hardship but as a choice, and the short, plain lines mirror that way of living: nothing extra, nothing wasted.