148
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!
