The title promises safety gear, but the poem gives us something stranger. The speaker looks back at an "office" where their hands "bled ink," as if writing there was a kind of wound. Calling it a "little house of lead" makes the place feel small, heavy and poisonous. Lead is a metal that weighs things down and also harms the body, and it was once used in printing type, so the word seems to link work, writing and slow damage.
Then the speaker asks to be brought a "vizard," an old word for a mask, and "tin eyes." These are armor-like, but they're also flimsy and impersonal. The speaker seems to want protection by going numb: seeing without feeling, working without being hurt.
The mood is tense, tired and darkly wry. The poem is very short, and that bareness adds to the feeling of someone bracing themselves, more resigned than angry.