I measure every Grief I meet

I measure every Grief I meet
With narrow, probing, eyes —
I wonder if It weighs like Mine —
Or has an Easier size.

I wonder if They bore it long —
Or did it just begin —
I could not tell the Date of Mine —
It feels so old a pain —

I wonder if it hurts to live —
And if They have to try —
And whether — could They choose between —
It would not be — to die —

I note that Some — gone patient long —
At length, renew their smile —
An imitation of a Light
That has so little Oil —

I wonder if when Years have piled —
Some Thousands — on the Harm —
That hurt them Early — such a lapse
Could give them any Balm —

Or would They go on aching still
Through Centuries of Nerve —
Enlightened to a larger Pain -
In Contrast with the Love —

The Grieved — are many — I am told —
There is the various Cause —
Death — is but one — and comes but once —
And only nails the eyes —

There's Grief of Want — and Grief of Cold —
A sort they call "Despair" —
There's Banishment from native Eyes —
In sight of Native Air —

And though I may not guess the kind —
Correctly — yet to me
A piercing Comfort it affords
In passing Calvary —

To note the fashions — of the Cross —
And how they're mostly worn —
Still fascinated to presume
That Some — are like My Own —
F550 (1863)  J561


Misery loves company and here Dickinson says she finds a "piercing Comfort" in noting the crosses other people bear, presuming that "Some – are like My Own". Yet Dickinson is saying much more in this contemplation of grief than the old saying. Combining her poetic eye and her family's forensic skills, she muses on and anatomizes the grief she sees in others – and that she herself has experienced. The second line of the poem invites readers to watch her "narrow, probing, eyes" as she scrutinizes her subjects. It is a very visual and startling line: she is more calculating than curious; more analytical than empathetic.
        The coolness should be ironic, the poet is clearly noticing and identifying with her subjects' grief, yet Dickinson distances herself from actual pain throughout the poem. No specifics are given either about herself or other sufferers. She emphasizes her detachment in the seventh stanza as she introduces her categories of grief. "I am told", she adds – seemingly gratuitously – that there are many grievers and various causes for grief. The narrow-eyed observer of pain, the confident of dear friends and family, most of whom no doubt suffered mightily during their lives, would not need to be told that many suffer.
        The very distance she establishes reflects a very Dickinsonian grief. We know from poems such as "After great pain, a formal feeling comes"  [F372], that numbness and detachment are ways that Dickinson experiences grief. More recently, in "I tie my Hat – I crease my Shawl" [F522]  she describes the "scrupulous exactness" with which she endures even though "existence – some way back – / Stopped – struck – my ticking – through". It with scrupulous exactness that she dissects the experience of grief in this poem.

The first two stanzas establish that her intense interest in the grief of others is spiced by her own grief. Hers is heavy and old; how old and heavy is theirs? Having established her misery bona fides, Dickinson begins a meditation on the effects of grief. Does it hurt so much, does living become such a struggle that the sufferer might prefer death? She notes grief's quelling effect on smiles. Her metaphor of smiles as lamps is apt, for we think of smiles as lighting up a face. Even when the smile returns after a long grief it is weak for lack of fuel. Whatever joy and comfort can be experienced are but dim warmth. Grief still dampens the source of light. She also wonders how long might grief might last – centuries perhaps? Could pain actually grow larger than the original love that spawned it?
        Dickinson then makes her aside about being told about grief and its causes, cataloging the types of grief: Want, Cold, Despair, Banishment, and Death. In perhaps the most striking line of the poem she mentions, again almost casually, that "Death – is but one" cause, but it "comes but once / And only nails the eyes". The graphic image of death nailing the eyes is reminiscent of earlier poems where death comes wielding instruments of torture from the machine age. In "How many times these low feet staggered  [F238] a dead housewife's mouth is "soldered" shut, the corpse is stilled with an "awful rivet" and stayed with "hasps of steel". In "That after Horror – that 'twas us"  [F243] Death "drills his Welcome in" with a "metallic grin".  

Coffin nail -- now a fashion item via Etsy

        But despite this horror, Dickinson has modified the grief of dying by saying death is "but one" cause and it "comes but once" and "only nails the eyes". Clearly the other griefs are more to be dreaded. The griefs of Want, Cold, Banishment and Despair by implication can come more than once, affect more than the body. They maim the soul.
        As she closes the poem, Dickinson establishes yet more distance in tone from the real experience of grief that come out in the earlier striking phrases. She depicts the various agonies of the Cross as "fashions" and her interest in them centering in "how they're mostly worn". Such a diversion affords her comfort: surely some of these suffering people are experiencing the same sort of grief that she suffers. Looking at the outward manifestations as styles of dress affected by the afflicted is at once comfort, grist for the poet's mill, and survival strategy.

This poem is one of a hundred discussed by prominent critic Helen Vendler in Dickinson: Selected Poems and Commentary. If you find yourself drawn to Dickinson's poetry, by all means  get a copy. Although I almost always find myself enlightened by Vendler's commentary, I disagree with her on this poem. As one example, Vendler contends that Dickinson measures other Griefs against her own, always finding her Grief "is greater not only comparatively but superlatively. Only Christ's passion is a Grief on the same order as hers."
I simply don't see that degree of Grief one-up-manship here. I see the numbed soul finding human connection where it can, even while maintaining distance; I see a poet who delves into grief employing her narrow, probing eyes to see as deeply as she can, diving into the wreck as twentieth-century poet Adrienne Rich did to "see the damage that was done / and the treasures that prevail."

The One that could repeat the Summer Day —

The One that could repeat the Summer Day —
Were greater than Itself — though He –
Minutest of Mankind – should be —

And He — could reproduce the Sun —
At Period of Going down —
The Lingering — and the Stain — I mean —

When Orient have been outgrown —
And Occident — become Unknown —
His Name — remain —
F549 (1863)  J307

This poem is fairly self explanatory and I could no better at explication than David Preest in his summery:

 … Emily returns to the theme of poem 291 [F327, "How the old Mountains drip with Sunset"]. There she claimed that even the greatest artists could not properly reproduce the sunset. Here she says that if (the meaning of ‘And’ in line 4) an artist could reproduce the actual moment of sunset, his name would remain until the end of time, even if he were the ‘minutest of mankind,’ since he would be greater than nature itself.

Of course Emily herself attempted to reproduce the sunset in many poems.

But Dickinson does some nice poetic things that I think deserve appreciation. First, she varies from her more usual ballad or hymn form, adopting longer lines, using three-line stanzas, and having a (slant) rhyme scheme of AAA / BBB / BBB. The rhymes are nearly all long vowels which places a subtle emphasis on the last word of each line. There are long vowels heavily salted throughout the poem, slowing it down as if it were a long summer day or the sunset "Lingering" between the "outgrown" east of morning and the darkness in the west into which the sun sinks. 

The most effective use of long vowels comes at the very end in the shortest line of the poem: "His Name – remain – ". Dickinson's use of word sounds underscores the meaning.  The rhyme of "Name" with "remain" is very tight, too, with the similar-sounding "n" and "m" sounds reversed from one word to the other.

There's an assumption of artistic power throughout the poem. The artist who can reproduce a summer day is greater than a summer day. Perhaps Dickinson is winking at Shakespeare who famously began Sonnet 18 by asking, "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?" He ends by claiming that through his poem the subject of the poem will never age or wither; consequently she is superior to the summer day.
  The artist will experience similar longevity, for the name of one who captures the sunset will live on – just as Shakespeare is as immortal as his creations. The artist and their art give life to each other. 

I find Dickinson's use of "Stain" to describe sunset color quite interesting. Does she mean that a true rendering would include some reverberation of, for lack of a better word, sin? "Stain" in both her her dictionary and our modern ones means "discoloration" and "taint". Or is she simply referring to the streaks and swatches of sunset color? 
  That line about the Occident becoming unknown  is a bit mysterious. The pairing of "Unknown" with "outgrown" is lovely and perhaps it mirrors life. We outgrow our morning and noon and fade into that last "undiscovered country".

The Black Berry — wears a Thorn in his side —

The Black Berry — wears a Thorn in his side —
But no Man heard Him cry —
He offers His Berry, just the same
To Partridge — and to Boy —

He sometimes holds upon the Fence —
Or struggles to a Tree —
Or clasps a Rock, with both His Hands —
But not for Sympathy —

We — tell a Hurt — to cool it —
This Mourner — to the Sky
A little further reaches — instead —
Brave Black Berry —
                                          F548 (1863)  J554

Dickinson has a little fun here anthropomorphizing a blackberry bush – although this one behaves more like a vine, growing along a fence or tree and reaching for the sky. Strictly speaking, the thorn doesn't touch the cane, so it shouldn't hurt, but it would be churlish to insist on it. Better to just imagine the noble plant offering his delicious berry to the first comers despite the thorn in its side. 

Photo: Tim Whithall, Solant News

        Dickinson gets as much drama as she can out of the scene: the "Brave Black Berry" "holds" on to the fence, he "struggles" up the tree, "clasps" a rock with "both his Hands" – and when the pain still continues, he reaches to the Sky. Shouldn't we all take a lesson from this "Mourner"?  Instead, we tend to talk about our hurts to "cool" our pain. 

Hey, that works for me – as does a lovely blackberry cobbler, preferably with Mr. Ice Cream.

Dickinson uses a slant rhyme on "cry" throughout the poem: cry, Boy, Tree, Sympathy, Sky, Berry. 

There's been a Death, in the Opposite House

There's been a Death, in the Opposite House,
As lately as Today —
I know it, by the numb look
Such Houses have — alway —

The Neighbors rustle in and out —
The Doctor — drives away —
A Window opens like a Pod —
Abrupt — mechanically —

Somebody flings a Mattress out —
The Children hurry by —
They wonder if it died — on that —
I used to — when a Boy —

The Minister — goes stiffly in —
As if the House were His —
And He owned all the Mourners — now —
And little Boys — besides —

And then the Milliner — and the Man
Of the Appalling Trade —
To take the measure of the House —

There'll be that Dark Parade —

Of Tassels — and of Coaches — soon —
It's easy as a Sign —
The Intuition of the News —
In just a Country Town —
                           F547 (1863)  J389

Dickinson's sharp eye for detail makes this poem as vivid a slice of life as any Norman Rockwell painting. Various local characters make an appearance as the poet watches from her window. Neighbors come and go, some probably carrying casseroles or flowers as they do today. The doctor, his labors over, drives away in his no doubt important-looking carriage. Some servant throws open a window and "flings" out a mattress and of course the local children will be telling each other that just hours ago someone died on it. 
        My favorite is the minister. This is his moment and he makes an appropriate entrance – "As if the House were His / And He owned all the Mourners – now – / and little Boys – besides." Very droll, and no doubt the children scattered at his approach. Dickinson casts herself in this role, looking back to when she was a boy. It's a playful persona and boys had more freedom to run about than girls, so no wonder Dickinson adopts that vantage.
The milliner arrives to take measurements for an appropriate burial hat. At last the undertaker, he "Of the Appalling Trade", arrives to determine the size of the casket – the body's "House". Once the corpse is housed it will begin its "Dark Parade" as black-garbed mourners, the hearse and coaches full of mourners – many with black horses – head to the cemetery. 
        Who needs the Internet to find out what's going on? In a small town everyone knows what's going on.

Dickinson's observations are emotionally detached. She has nothing to say about the family or the deceased, no speculations, no formulations of grief or sympathy. She is simply recounting what happens on a day of death. Nothing is conventionally pleasant; even the house has a "numb" look. The window from which the mattress is flung opens abruptly and "mechanically".  The minister and undertaker are not sympathetic characters, and of course the funeral procession is "Dark". 
        Even so, the poem is a pleasure to read. We feel the vicarious thrill of watching great drama enfold while ensconced in our own room. We can giggle at the minister, shudder at the undertaker, and nod knowingly at the familiarity of the scene. It is, perhaps, this very familiarity that allows life to go on smoothly all around.

In 1863, the year Dickinson wrote this poem, there would have been more funerals than usual because of young men who came home wounded from the war and didn't survive. But I don't think Dickinson is making a large point here. 

I prayed, at first, a little Girl

I prayed, at first, a little Girl,
Because they told me to —
But stopped, when qualified to guess
How prayer would feel — to me —

If I believed God looked around,
Each time my Childish eye
Fixed full, and steady, on his own
In Childish honesty —

And told him what I'd like, today,
And parts of his far plan
That baffled me —
The mingled side
Of his Divinity —

And often since, in Danger,
I count the force 'twould be
To have a God so strong as that
To hold my life for me

Till I could take the Balance
That tips so frequent, now,
It takes me all the while to poise —
And then — it doesn't stay —
                                                                F546 (1863)  J576

Dickinson's earlier poems sometimes adopt a scoffing even bitter tone about prayer. In  "At least – to pray – is left – is left –" [F377] the poet is "knocking – everywhere" but not finding "Jesus – in the Air." Prayer, what is left, seems hollow. Similarly, in "My period had come for Prayer (F525), God couldn't even be found when wanted. Dickinson concludes that poem by choosing to worship rather than pray, an important distinction that pertains to this poem.
        Bitterness comes out in "I should have been too glad, I see" [F283]. The speaker in that poem sarcastically complains that had she been too "glad" or her "Fear too dim", she couldn't pray as Jesus prayed as he was crucified, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" The gist of that poem is that misery in life begets the sense of fear and defeat that underlies faith and prayer.

This poem lacks the bite of those poems, adopting instead a philosophical wistfulness.

As a young girl, the poet prayed as she was taught – until she considered God's point of view. At that, she quit praying, seemingly out of consideration. Perhaps this god wouldn't feel particularly happy about confronting the "Childish honesty" of children who have needs and wants – and questions about his intentions and inherent contradictions. Perhaps he has many more important things to attend to. But then again, perhaps his "Infinitude", his "Silence" amid the "Vast Prairies of Air" (F525) is simply of a different order and magnitude than our mortal concerns. It would be like calling down a whirlwind to clear the patio of fallen blossoms. This is where Dickinson decides to worship rather than pray.
As an adult, the poet sometimes wishes the god of her youth existed, or that that he does exist and she could call on him – the poem can be read both ways – to give her a helping hand. In the last stanza, among Dickinson's most poignant, she explains she needs a steadier "Balance" in life as if she is on a rickety plank or her legs unsteady. Her precariousness is a "Danger", particularly since her balance "tips so frequent now". It's all she can do to achieve "poise". This reminds me of poem Fr508 where she is poised between Heaven and a fearful Pit. In the current poem, the moment of balance and equilibrium, finally achieved, "doesn't stay".
This existential tension fuels many Dickinson poems. Like many of our best poets, she doesn't shy away from personal truth. Dickinson once ended a letter to her young cousins by saying, ‘Good-night. Let Emily sing for you because she cannot pray.' That is what poems such as this do.

In thinking about Dickinson's poetry in this way I am reminded of one of my favorite Rilke poems:

Mountains of the heart
Rainer Maria Rilke

Exposed on the mountains of the heart. See, how small there,
see: the last hamlet of words, and higher,
and yet so small, a last
homestead of feeling. Do you recognize it?
Exposed on the mountains of the heart. Rocky earth
under the hands. But something will
flower here; out of the mute abyss
flowers an unknowing herb in song.
But the knowing? Ah, that you who began to understand
and are silent now, exposed on the mountains of the heart.
Yet many an awareness still whole wanders there,
many a self-confident mountain animal
passes through and remains. And that great protected bird
circles about the peaks of pure denial. But
unprotected, here on the mountains of the heart.

They dropped like Flakes —

They dropped like Flakes —
They dropped like stars —
Like Petals from a Rose —
When suddenly across the June
A wind with fingers — goes —

They perished in the Seamless Grass —
No eye could find the place —
But God can summon every face
Of his Repealless — List.
                                                                      J409,  Fr545 (1863)  

At first the poem sounds like a children's song. It has the cadence and meter of a lullaby or common ballad and most of the key words are one-syllable concrete nouns. Something is falling softly and quietly, something like snowflakes, rose petals or shooting stars – seemingly something lovely and ephemeral. The only force we see is that of a June "wind with fingers" that ruffles the roses. But immediately into the second stanza the word "perished" banishes any such preconceptions. Something terrible has happened.
        During the Civil War, Dickinson wrote only a small percentage of her poems about it; this is one of them. The Battle of Gettysburg, a terrible three-day battle with 51,000 casualties, occurred in the same year as she wrote this poem. Dickinson would have read the news accounts with their lists of dead and wounded and even though the battle was an important Union victory, the mood upon first publication of casualties was somber. The Springfield Republican, the Massachusetts newspaper edited by the Dickinson family's dear friend Samuel Bowles, had this to say about the battle: 

Attack of the 1st Minnesota at Gettysburg, by Don Troiani

Our soldiers credit the rebels with the most unyielding and fearless courage in the late battles. Torn to pieces as they are, having lost 30,000 or 40,000 men in this last five days, they are not used up. … Their endurance, their desperation, their utter disregard of life is surely worthy of a better cause. [July 8, 1863  p2].

A couple of weeks later, Harper's Weekly published an unattributed poem in a decidedly triumphant tone. The first two stanzas follow:

Grandly the army wrought, on the murderous field of battle;
It has wiped the stain of defeat from every soldier's brow:
Mid the clash of steel on steel, and shouts, and the harsh death-rattle,
The Army of the Potomac has won a victory now!
Honor to ye brave men, from the battle wounded and gory!
Honor to ye brave men, whom the angel of death passed by!
Ages on ages hence shall others rehearse your story,
And pray that when duty calls like you they may live or die.   [7/18/1863, p.450]

Gettysburg Nat'l Military Park

In contrast to the clash and carnage of war and to the (understandable) chest-thumping of the victors, Dickinson's poem is all quietness and grace. Once the poem has been absorbed, however, this quietness has its own chill. It is like watching a movie battle with the sound turned off, the soldiers shot, bludgeoned, or bayonetted in silence, falling to the ground in silent slow motion. As in time-lapse photography, the scene fast forwards until the "Seamless Grass" covers much of the battlefield where dying soldiers once lay. Dickinson's vision offers the scope of time and one can wonder if she envisioned the thousands of acres of meadow and woods that now comprise the Gettysburg National Military Park.

Dickinson's similes all come from nature. She has used snow imagery before to symbolize purity; using it here suggests here that the soldiers are innocents falling together in a blizzard of death. Like falling stars their sacrifice shines brightly as they die, their shed blood red as the scattered petals of a rose. What she leaves out is any allusion to cause or outcome. War seems to be a fact of nature just as snow, meteoroids, and roses are. Life goes on, as does the grass – and Whitman's beautiful line where he considers grass to be "the beautiful uncut hair of graves" foreshadows Dickinson's tone.

 The last two lines don't seem organically tied to the rest of the poem. God can "summon" every soldier, and "summon" does double duty here meaning both 'recall' and 'call', as if the soldiers were lost. That clearly wasn't the case, although the spot where each soldier died would be impossible for mortals to note. And the function of the last line is unclear to me. God's list can't be repealed. Yes, but how does that relate to the fallen soldiers? Are there other lists that are repealed? I imagine newspaper lists are amended as better information is obtained, but their lists are of a completely different order and category than God's. 
        Perhaps Dickinson wanted a reassuring close to the poem. She may have intended it for acquaintances who lost a family member in the war and reckoned that the Seamless Grass wasn't quite enough for such a one. Or perhaps this is Dickinson's oblique way of saying that each fallen soldier can be summoned by God – regardless of flag.

"Heaven" has different Signs — to me —

"Heaven" has different Signs — to me —
Sometimes, I think that Noon
Is but a symbol of the Place —
And when again, at Dawn,

A mighty look runs round the World
And settles in the Hills —
An Awe if it should be like that
Upon the Ignorance steals —

The Orchard, when the Sun is on —
The Triumph of the Birds
When they together Victory make —
Some Carnivals of Clouds —

The Rapture of a finished Day —
Returning to the West —
All these — remind us of the place
That Men call "Paradise" —

Itself be fairer — we suppose —
But how Ourself, shall be
Adorned, for a Superior Grace —
Not yet, our eyes can see —
                                    F544 (1863)  J575

It's no surprise by now to find that when Emily Dickinson thinks of heaven she thinks in terms of all the delights she finds around her every day. She is not one to longingly wait for her release from this world of woe. Her earthly heaven includes such marvels as "The Triumph of the Birds" and "Carnivals of Clouds". There is even "The Rapture of a finished Day". 
  Perhaps of more significance, she senses a Presence in this world – and this alone piques her interest in the afterlife. If whatever is behind the "mighty look" that comes with Dawn is part of Heaven, that would be "Awe"some. Her "Awe" shadows her lack of knowledge of heaven; it "steals" upon it in fascination as if the profound mystery that attracts her each day might be magnified in the afterlife. 
But then she returns to the triumphs and carnivals and raptures of life here below.

She concludes, almost grudgingly, that "we suppose" heaven will be "fairer" than earth. I can't help but find that "we suppose" to be a very pointed qualifier. She's pretty enamored of life (at least in the meadows, woods, and orchards of Amherst). But, for sake of argument, she grants Heaven the advantage. Then, with almost a wink, she then seems to ask, "Okay, so earth can be improved on; but how are people going to be spiffed up enough to encounter some "Superior Grace"? That's a thornier question involving questions of resurrection, bodies, and souls. There is no answer to that question, at least "Not yet" while we are still alive.
  
I find this a thoughtful and lovely poem. Each stanza is a gem, each image worth dwelling on. Dickinson finds her "Signs" of heaven in each part of the day. She begins with noon, its ripe fullness the "symbol of the Place" – and then backtracks to dawn to move forward chronologically. Dawn is when the Presence casts its eye "round the World" before settling down like a watchful cat in its hills. Later, "when the Sun is on" – a nice metaphor as if the sun were a lamp, or perhaps as if it were a trinket donned by Day – the orchard fills with birdsong. Together, the birds make "Victory" over dark and, it follows, over death. 
        As the day progresses the clouds cavort overhead as if in a carnival. The "finished Day" ends in "Rapture" as it returns to the West, and this is the direction of the setting sun, of the Hesperides – a mythical garden in some distant west where nymphs tend Hera's golden apple trees, and in general the direction of death and immortality, for this is where the sun sinks at the end of day.

Unit, like Death, for Whom?

Unit, like Death, for Whom?
True, like the Tomb,
Who tells no secret
Told to Him —
The Grave is strict —
Tickets admit
Just two — the Bearer — and the Borne —
And seat — just One —
The Living — tell —
The Dying — but a Syllable —
The Coy Dead — None —
No Chatter — here — No Tea —
So Babbler, and Bohea — stay there —
But Gravity — and Expectation — and Fear —
A tremor just, that all's not sure.
                                                 F543 (1863)  J408

The poem reads as a spontaneous meditation on death as if the poet has come across an open grave in her ambles. She pauses to wonder whose gravesite it is (the essential Dickinson Lexicon gives "unit" the definition of "dwelling place"). But since the "Grave is strict", like the more durable structure of a stone tomb, and "tells no secret", she is unlikely to ever know. 
Dickinson then imagines the burial as a bit of theater or a social event. There are tickets, but unlike theater tickets, there are only two issued: one for the dead and one for the bearer. Only the dead, however, actually get a seat.  

During the funeral the living chat away. Dickinson contrasts this with the dying who but moan or gasp a "Syllable" – perhaps a name, perhaps simply a groan. Those "Coy Dead", though, have nothing to say. Whatever they know they keep to themselves. "No Chatter … No Tea" – the grave is no place for babblers. They and their tea should stay alive and with the living. "Bohea"* is a type of tea, and the Lexicon notes the word is not only the name of a tea but suggests "Bohemian". 
Whether tea drinker, babbler, or Bohemian – all feel something at the grave, and Dickinson names the feelings: Gravity, Expectation, and Fear. The occasion is heavy and serious; it reminds the living that they, too, have an expected date with death and this date is what engenders the fear. But in keeping with the tea and chatter, the fear isn't so very bad. It is just a "tremor", a brief frisson. What seems so sure in daily life suddenly seems not quite so sure.



* Dickinson might have read the poems of Alaric Watts in which case the chattering drinkers of Bohea might have come to her mind. Note the alliteration that goes in alphabetical order from line to line.

"About an age ago, as all agree,
Beauteous Belinda, brewing best Bohea
Carelessly chattered, controverting clean,
Dublin's derisive, disputations dean ..."
Attributed to Alaric A. Watts (1820)

For largest Woman's Heart I knew —

For largest Woman's Heart I knew —
'Tis little I can do —
And yet the largest Woman's Heart
Could hold an Arrow — too —
And so, instructed by my own,
I tenderer, turn Me to –
                       F542 (1863)  J309


Dickinson sent one copy of this poem to Sue, her sister-in-law and beloved (although at times estranged) friend. The short poem is full of mystery. Why is the first line in the past tense? What is it that the poet might want to do while seemingly regretting that there is "little" she can do? What sort of arrow is Dickinson envisioning: a Cupid's arrow of love or the sharp arrow of pain and grief? The heart can hold an arrow "too" – what else did it hold? And finally, how is one to complete the last thought?
  

Woman defending herself against Eros
by William Adophe Bouguereau (about 1880)

One reading might have Dickinson writing directly to and of Sue. She has the largest heart. Perhaps it is so large that Dickinson finds herself rattling around in it along with myriad others and there is not much she can do about it. Yet despite the (gossiped about) flirtatious nature of Sue, she could harbor Cupid's dart. Instructed by her own heart, the poet, feeling more sympathetic by this contemplation, turns herself to … perhaps to her own rich inner life or to a philosophical and generous understanding and acceptance of Sue.

I’m not sure what the honymic rhyme of "too" with "to" adds to the poem, but it doesn't seem accidental. 

Any comments on this poem are indeed welcome!

The Test of Love — is Death —

The Test of Love — is Death —
Our Lord — "so loved" — it saith —
What Largest Lover — hath
Another — doth —

If smaller Patience — be —
Through less Infinity —
If Bravo, sometimes swerve —
Through fainter Nerve —

Accept it's Most —
And overlook — the Dust —
Last — Least —
The Cross' — Request —
                                                     F541 (1863)  J543

 Readers in Dickinson's devout Protestant community would have been quite familiar with the Bible; consequently they could easily flesh out the well-known New Testament verses this poem draws from. Without these verses the poem seems sketchy; with them, we find the poet asking for toleration and perhaps forgiveness in the name of love.
The first line about the "Test of Love" draws on John 3:16: "For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life." Another relevant New Testament text is John 15:13 – "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends."
Having established that the willingness to die – or have the "only begotten Son" die – proves Love, Dickinson claims that what God or Jesus, the "Largest Lover", has done, a person can do as well. She hastens to qualify this, however. A human has "smaller Patience" simply because human lives are short (a nice insight); we have less courage because of "fainter Nerve". So although we might think we would do everything for another, even to the point of death, our human frailties get in the way.
   

Soul of the Sunflower, 1870, Elihu Vedder

The last stanza seems to me to switch from a general discussion of divine versus human to a direct request. A paraphrase of the first two lines might read: Accept that humans can be mostly (but not perfectly) loving, patient and brave; "Overlook" human frailty. So far so good. But what of the last two lines? Here Dickinson refers to other New Testament teachings. "Least" draws from Matthew 25:40, where Jesus claims, in a parable about helping the neediest people, that "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me."  
        The cross' request, perhaps the "Last" thing that Jesus said, would be one of the seven  sayings  that Jesus reportedly made as he was being crucified. Of these, only one can be considered a true request: from Luke 23:34 – "Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they do." Dickinson may be exhorting her readers to be more tolerant, loving, and forgiving; but to my ear it sounds as if she is asking for a bit of forgiveness herself. Perhaps her patience faltered and she lacked a bit of courage. I am one of the least, she says; I've failed in some way, but I would still die for you. Remember the lessons of the New Testament. Understand, forgive, and still love me.
        I struggled with this poem until reading it as a personal plea from the poet. As a general discussion it seems disjointed, even annoying. As a heartfelt plea, though, I find it moving and even beautiful. The last line calls out in the name of the cross of crucifixion – which might have been schmaltzy but with the bareness of the lines, the number of words and phrases left out, it has more poignancy than pathos.

Each line in the first stanza ends in a slant rhyme of "Death" – a quiet sound that contrasts with the abundance of "L" sounds: Love, Lord, loved, Largest, Lover". The contrast of a complex even difficult sound (the "L", dropped or missing from many languages and language variants, seems unfinished, the tongue poised behind the upper teeth as if ready to spring into a new sound) with the long, quiet fricative "th", emphasizes the end words. "Death" casts a shadow over the entire first stanza until the final word, "doth."
        The second stanza trips by more quickly with an AABB scheme and the fast perfect rhyme of "swerve" with "Nerve". The third stanza reverts to the AAAA slant-rhyme pattern of the first. Once again the end words are emphasized, not only by rhyme but by the decisive sibilance of the "st" sounds. The final word, "Request," which I argue is the point of the poem, is doubly emphasized in picking up both the long "e" of "Least" as well as the slant rhyme with "Most" and "Dust."

If What we could — were what we would —

If What we could — were what we would —
Criterion — be small —
It is the Ultimate of Talk —
The Impotence to Tell —
F540 (1863)  J407

Some might call it griping, others wishful thinking, still others confiding. No matter what you call it, I think Dickinson nails it here. Sharing what you want but don't have is "the Ultimate of Talk". It's how we sort out our priorities, discuss strategies and alternatives, take or give consolation, bond with friends, gain encouragement, or simply vent.
        Doing or getting what you want, on the other hand, might be rewarding and satisfying, but it doesn't make for great conversation unless you are phoning home. Dickinson didn't live in a culture that valued boasting – and neither do we, except for brag-rappers or professional wrestlers. And then again, fulfillment, like virtue, is its own reward. 

Confidence, Daniel Ridgway Knight, 1899

The concept of the poem seems simple, but try to say as much as concisely. Dickinson does so through eclipsis (leaving out words) and parallel structure. Textbook grammar might suffer but textbooks be damned! The sense of the poem is clear, and a sentence such as "It is the Ultimate of Talk – / The Impotence to Tell –" is just fun. The phrase rolls off the tongue and then the mind enjoys a bit of a romp to sort it out. 
        Dickinson pairs "the Ultimate" with "The Impotence" and follows both with a short prepositional phrase: "of Talk" and "to Tell". The parallelism is capped by the fun word "Impotence" – a stuffy sounding word that, at least to modern ears, suggests a very particular type of inability to get "what we would".
        The parallelism of the first line sets the lighthearted tone of the poem with its singsong cadence and multiplicity of "w" sounds: what, we, were, what, we, would. The last two lines trip to "t" sounds: It, Ultimate, Talk, Impotence, to, Tell.