I remember rooms that have had their part
In the steady slowing down of the heart.
The room in Paris, the room at Geneva,
The little damp room with the seaweed smell,
And that ceaseless maddening sound of the tide—
Rooms where for good or for ill—things died.
But there is the room where we (two) lie dead,
Though every morning we seem to wake and might just as well seem to sleep again
As we shall somewhere in the other quieter, dustier bed
Out there in the sun—in the rain.
This is the longest and most significant line of the poem … and a mystery. They ‘seem’ to wake and ‘seem’ to sleep. So they are not dead after all, but just appear so. There is a sense that the speaker is looking forward to death, The present may have lost meaning. 
 The long line could imitate the tedium of this sleeping and waking. It interrupts the gentle rhythm, the progress forward of the preceding lines.
Rooms