Pain has an element of blank;
It cannot recollect
When it began, or if there were
A day when it was not.
It has no future but itself,
Its infinite realms contain
Its past, enlightened to perceive
New periods of pain.
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- Heaven Is So Far Of The Mind
- Snow Beneath Whose Chilly Softness
- Life—is What We Make Of It
- On This Long Storm The Rainbow Rose
- There Is A Flower That Bees Prefer