Page:Emily Dickinson Poems - second series (1891).djvu/241

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FTER 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.