A woman’s spirit climbs so high that her face puffs up, as if her only nourishment is awe. Dickinson doesn’t mean this as a compliment. The image is comically grotesque: a countenance inflated by its own sense of elevation. The mood is wry and a little unnerving — we’re standing near someone whose loftiness has made her almost unapproachable, someone who gives off a light, sparkling scorn.
Then the speaker offers a surprising piece of advice. Facing the dawn head-on — doing something grandly foolhardy — is actually safer than deserving this woman’s ethereal disdain. Her contempt might seem airy and effervescent, but it’s presented as something to dodge at all costs. The poem leaves us with a tense amusement: a recognition that some forms of spiritual pride can isolate a person so thoroughly that merely being noticed by them feels like a hazard.