After a Hundred Years
by Emily Dickinson
After a hundred years
Nobody knows the place,–
Agony, that enacted there,
Motionless as peace.
Weeds triumphant ranged,
Strangers strolled and spelled
At the lone orthography
Of the elder dead.
Winds of summer fields
Recollect the way,–
Instinct picking up the key
Dropped by memory.
