Poems by Emily Dickinson, Series Two
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XLI.
THE FORGOTTEN GRAVE
After a hundred yearsNobody knows the place, —Agony, that enacted there,Motionless as peace.Weeds triumphant ranged,Strangers strolled and spelledAt the lone orthographyOf the elder dead.Winds of summer fieldsRecollect the way, —Instinct picking up the keyDropped by memory.XLII
Lay this laurel on the oneToo intrinsic for renown.Laurel! veil your deathless tree, —Him you chasten, that is he!