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.
The poet moves to something more precise and personal, though we still are not told the identities of ‘we two’. It is also not clear why they ‘lie dead’ while at the same time come alive again in the next line. It could be that the poet is now projecting her thoughts forward to the end of life. 
 The mood, though, is oddly and indefinably peaceful. It doesn’t seem as if the speaker is regretting this future or present death.
Rooms