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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