Dickinson’s speaker is trying to check whether she actually exists. She feels her life with both hands the way you might pat your pockets for keys, then holds her spirit up to a mirror hoping it will seem more solid. She turns her whole being over, examining every heartbeat (“pound”) and asking who it belongs to, as if her own name might not feel familiar. She prods her face—twisting her hair, pressing her dimples—and waits to see if they respond, desperate for some small sign that she’s still there. The mood is deeply uncanny: half scientific experiment, half ghost story, full of quiet panic. Then the tone shifts. She speaks to herself like a friend, coaxing: that time of doubt is past, and maybe we can learn to like the afterlife (“Heaven”) as much as we loved our old home. It’s a fragile, almost heartbreaking consolation—uncertainty giving way to a tender resolve to keep going.
I felt my life with both my hands — Summary
I felt my life with both my hands To see if it was there -- I held my spirit to the Glass, To prove it possibler --
I turned my Being round and round And paused at every pound To ask the Owner's name -- For doubt, that I should know the Sound --
I judged my features -- jarred my hair -- I pushed my dimples by, and waited -- If they -- twinkled back -- Conviction might, of me --
I told myself, "Take Courage, Friend -- That -- was a former time -- But we might learn to like the Heaven, As well as our Old Home!"