Pain--has an Element of Blank--
It cannot recollect
When it begun--or if there were
A time when it was not--
It has no Future--but itself--
Its Infinite Contain
Its Past--enlightened to perceive
New Periods--of Pain.
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- The Grass So Little Has To Do
- The Morns Are Meeker Than They Were
- Love—is Anterior To Life
- Without This—there Is Nought
- The Color Of The Grave Is Green