All overgrown by cunning moss
All overgrown by cunning moss,
All interspersed with weed,
The little cage of “Currer Bell”
In quiet “Haworth” laid.
Gathered from many wanderings
Gethsemane can tell
Thro’ what transporting anguish
She reached the Asphodel!
Soft falls the sounds of Eden
Upon her puzzled ear
Oh what an afternoon for Heaven,
When “Bronte” entered there!
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