Poetry blogging, Day 17

[a_t_rain]

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.

Comments

[tempestsarekind.livejournal.com]

*sigh*

Emily Dickinson just...humbles me. I adore her, in a totally uncritical way, but can't imagine ever writing about her. (Beyond the really, fantastically awful paper I wrote during our high-school American Lit unit, of course.) Shakespeare, whatever. (I may not write anything *good*, but I can imagine writing.) Austen, sure. But Dickinson? Now that's work.