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!