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.