Image: Unsplash, downloaded https://unsplash.com/photos/eI8GsYUlYuU (24.3.2021.)
Pain has an element of blank
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.
Hope is the thing with feathers
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
A light exists in spring
A light exists in spring
Not present on the year
At any other period.
When March is scarcely here
A color stands abroad
On solitary hills
That science cannot overtake,
But human nature feels.
It waits upon the lawn,
It shows the furthest tree
Upon the furthest slope we know;
It almost speaks to me.
Then, as horizons step,
Or noons report away,
Without the formula of sound,
It passes, and we stay;
A quality of loss
Affecting our content,
As trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a sacrament.
Source: Selected poems of Emily Dickinson (Dickinson, E. (2016.), Selected poems of Emily Dickinson, New York: Fall River Press)
More about Emily Dickinson: https://www.zvonainari.hr/single-post/2018/12/14/weekly-zingers-sigurna-u-svojim-alabastrenim-odajama
