After A Hundred Years

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.

by Emily Dickinson

Comments (4)

..........very nice, vivid and imaginative ★
A hundred years is a long time.
Always a pleasure to read :)
Always a pleasure to read :)