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
- In Ebon Box, When Years Have Flown
- Water Makes Many Beds
- There Came A Day At Summer's Full
- To Fill A Gap
- She Died—this Was The Way She Died