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Poemsby Emily Dickinson

The Forgotten Grave

 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.