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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