After a Hundred Years, por Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson

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.

#Americans #Women #XIXCentury

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