For women confounded by the notion of “having it all,” the life of 19th-century poet Emily Dickinson strikes an unsettling note.

Now enshrined in the predominantly male pantheon of major American poets, Dickinson died in 1886 at the age of 55, having barely left her Amherst, Mass., family home in years, and having seen only a few of her more than 1,500 poems ever achieve publication.

Maybe it’s fair enough that reluctant, and even devoted, students of poetry have found it easier to remember Dickinson typecast as the mousey mother of all spinsters than to understand her, or her famously “difficult” work.

Then along came William Luce’s acclaimed play, “The Belle of Amherst,” which set the pathetic rendering of Dickinson’s life on its ear, at the same time as it reserved her inalienable right to vulnerability. In the best tradition of the role’s most memorable purveyor, Julie Harris, Anne-Lynn Kettles’ sensitive performance in the one-woman show left playgoers at Blue Hill’s Left Bank Cafe smiling, yet sniffling appreciatively Sunday evening.

As interpreted by Luce, Dickinson not only accepted but embraced her neighbors’ view of her as Squire Dickinson’s “half-cracked daughter.” In the play, the poet muses with relish that the cryptic messages she has written to various townspeople have become virtual collectors’ items, with their recipients comparing notes to see which was strangest.

Complementing her assured grasp of “Belle’s” lengthy monologues and poetry recitations Sunday evening, Kettles’ birdlike frame and delicate gestures lent the proper air of inspired flutter to the part of the reclusive poet who peopled her life with words.

An actress and director whose credits include many New York and regional productions ranging from “Miami Vice” to the Emmy-nominated PBS “Great Performances” staging of Edward Albee’s “All Over,” Kettles spent a year in Dublin, Ireland, teaching acting at the Gaiety School.

Her portrayal of the would-be “belle” dressed Dickinson in flesh beyond words, making a virtue of the poet’s flamboyant propensities, such as wearing all white, and her liberal dispensing of dark humor to unsuspecting strangers.

In one exemplary anecdote of the play, asked to recommend suitable reliable lodgings in Amherst, Dickinson directed a visitor to a cemetery.

At midpoint in the play, the poet addresses head on the now well-worn issue of her marital status. In her words, she may be plain as a wren, but her hair is the color of a chestnut burr, and her eyes are deep as the ring of sherry a visitor leaves at the bottom of his glass.

“Belle” suggests Dickinson’s habit of circumspect inspection giving rise to art began early, when, as the smallest of three children, she had the tiniest room in the house, furnished with a bed, a lamp, and a geranium.

Her mother barely noticed her. Her lawyer father rarely read her poems, yet had at least some inkling that he should indulge his daughter’s predilection to stay up writing until 2 a.m. in the morning.

The Left Bank’s production of “Belle” brought home Dickinson’s spiritual attention to detail. During the intermission, audience members were treated to complementary slices of the poet’s signature black cake. “That’s a powerful recipe,” commented one of the crowd’s many female “patrons” of the brandy-and-dried-fruit concoction.

More powerful still was the climactic passage near the play’s end, when the now-aged Dickinson replays the day that the editor and mentor she had known only through correspondence came to call.

During their eight years of acquaintance by writing, the poet learned to temper her hopes of publication. But when Mr. Higginson comes in the flesh to Amherst, she indulges them just once more.

Forty years old at the time of his visit, Dickinson’s last gasps of aspiration are disappointed. Judging from the play, Higginson appreciated neither her work’s “spasmodic” meter, nor the spasms of hope his tutelage had inspired.

Fearing her poems never would find an audience, the poet explains her decision long before to sing like a warbler, whether anyone were to hear it or not. Vowing to find her ecstasy in living, “The heart wants what it wants, or doesn’t care,” says Kettles as Dickinson, a pronouncement making more than one playgoer nod in recognition.