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.
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Comments1Not entirely taken by Emily Dickinson's work I've just read. It seems bleak and quite perplexing. Did anyone else struggle a bit with understanding the vivid imagery she uses to convey time's passage?