After a Hundred Years, by 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

Enjoyed this read? Treat us to a coffee!.
Your help allows us to exist.

Liked or faved by...

Other works by Emily Dickinson...

He Strained my Faith

497 He strained my faith— Did he find it supple? Shook my strong trust— Did it then—yield?

Heart, Not So Heavy as Mine

83 Heart, not so heavy as mine Wending late home— As it passed my window Whistled itself a tune—

We don’t cry—Tim and I

We don’t cry—Tim and I, We are far too grand— But we bolt the door tight To prevent a friend— Then we hide our brave face

Absence disembodies—so does Death

860 Absence disembodies—so does Death Hiding individuals from the Earth Superposition helps, as well as lo… Tenderness decreases as we prove—

Before He Comes We Weigh the Time!

834 Before He comes we weigh the Time… ’Tis Heavy and ’tis Light. When He depart, an Emptiness Is the prevailing Freight.

No Crowd That Has Occurred

515 No Crowd that has occurred Exhibit—I suppose That General Attendance That Resurrection—does—

The Lady Feeds Her Little Bird

941 The Lady feeds Her little Bird At rarer intervals— The little Bird would not dissent But meekly recognize

Low at my Problem Bending

69 Low at my problem bending, Another problem comes— Larger than mine—Serener— Involving statelier sums.

Nobody Knows This Little Rose

35 Nobody knows this little Rose— It might a pilgrim be Did I not take it from the ways And lift it up to thee.

Did Our Best Moment Last

393 Did Our Best Moment last— ‘Twould supersede the Heaven— A few—and they by Risk—procure— So this Sort—are not given—

A poor—torn heart—a tattered heart—

78 A poor—torn heart—a tattered heart… That sat it down to rest— Nor noticed that the Ebbing Day Flowed silver to the West—

A Charm Invests a Face

421 A Charm invests a face Imperfectly beheld— The Lady dare not lift her Veil For fear it be dispelled—

Nature LX. The grass so little has to do

LX The grass so little has to do,— A sphere of simple green, With only butterflies to brood, And bees to entertain,

Rearrange a “Wife’s” Affection!

Rearrange a “Wife’s” Affection! When they dislocate my Brain! Amputate my freckled Bosom! Make me bearded like a man! Blush, my spirit, in thy Fastness…

At least—to pray—is left—is left

502 At least—to pray—is left—is left— Oh Jesus—in the Air— I know not which thy chamber is— I’m knocking—everywhere—

Emily Dickinson