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.
Just to fix the formatting:
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.I first read Dickinson when I was at University. Such a great poet. I think about her sometimes, how almost all of her poetry was found after her death, and how many fine works by others were no doubt never found.
I’m grateful for the post title being formatted correctly, too. Thankfully Dickinson was prolific as a poet for sure.
