All overgrown by cunning moss,
All interspersed with weed,
The little cage of "Currer Bell"
In quiet "Haworth" laid.
This Bird -- observing others
When frosts too sharp became
Retire to other latitudes --
Quietly did the same --
But differed in returning --
Since Yorkshire hills are green --
Yet not in all the nests I meet --
Can Nightingale be seen --
Gathered from many wanderings --
Gethsemane can tell
Thro' what transporting anguish
She reached the Asphodel!
Soft fall the sounds of Eden
Upon her puzzled ear --
Oh what an afternoon for Heaven,
When "Bronte" entered there!
Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)
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