Dickinson opens with a stampede. The Sun and Moon "must make their haste," and the Stars "express around," a verb that suggests speed and urgency. The whole sky seems to be clearing out, and the reason comes in the next lines: "in the Zones of Paradise / The Lord alone is burned." The grammar is knotty, but the sense seems to be that God is the only source of burning light there, so the sun, moon and stars have nothing left to do. Their usual jobs are suddenly redundant.
The second stanza makes the scale even larger. God's "Eye" is "the East and West," so the compass points are no longer places but parts of a face. When He turns the other pair, North and South, to "concentrate His Countenance," they "Like Glow Worms, flee away." The image shrinks the heavens. Stars and whole regions of the sky become tiny insects whose faint glimmer disappears in a brighter light. The plural verb "Do concentrate" after the singular "He" is a small grammatical wobble, but it fits a poem in which ordinary order is being overwhelmed.
Then the poem turns. After the huge, almost bombastic opening, the speaker drops into direct address: "Oh Poor and Far -- / Oh Hindred Eye / That hunted for the Day." "Hindred" is Dickinson's spelling, and the context suggests "hindered." Here the human eye mirrors the divine one. God's Eye holds East and West, while the human eye is blocked and searching, hunting for daylight that the first stanza has just sent hurrying away. The answer is not the blazing Paradise of the opening but something very small: "The Lord a Candle entertains / Entirely for Thee." A candle is the light you leave in a window for someone coming home. "Entertains" gives the word a double edge, since it can mean hosting a guest as well as keeping an idea in mind. The most powerful light in the poem is also the most welcoming, and it is lit for a single reader, "Thee."
The form supports this shift. The first two stanzas run in alternating longer and shorter lines, roughly eight syllables then six, which gives a hymn-like rhythm without a hymn's tidy rhymes. The line endings in those stanzas ("haste," "around," "Paradise," "burned") do not rhyme at all. The last stanza breaks the pattern again, opening with two short, almost gasping lines, "Oh Poor and Far" and "Oh Hindred Eye," before settling into longer ones. Its ending also faintly echoes the earlier stanza, since "Thee" answers "He" and "Day" recalls "away." Dickinson's dashes work as breaths or hesitations. Her capitals ("Zones," "Countenance," "Candle") make ordinary nouns look like names, as though each belongs to the grand scene.
What makes the poem worth reading is its willingness to hold two sizes of faith at once. One is the overwhelming God who makes the sky's lights look like glow worms. The other is the God who attends to a worn-out, distant person. Dickinson does not smooth these into a comfortable doctrine. The comfort is real, but the poem admits the human viewpoint is "Poor," "Far," and "Hindred," and the candle is offered to that condition rather than denying it. The poem is also compact, packing a cosmic spectacle and an intimate gesture into three short stanzas. Its brightest word may be its smallest, the "Candle," because after all that blaze, the poem finds its tenderness in a single flame.