The Forgotten Grave by Emily Dickinson

        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.