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Charlotte Brontë’s
Grave
All overgrown by cunning moss,
All interspersed with weed,
The little cage of ‘Currer Bell’
In quiet ‘Haworth’ laid.
This bird -
When frost too sharp became
Retire to other latitudes -
Quietly did the same -
But different in returning -
Since Yorkshire hills are green -
Yet not all in the nests I meet -
Can Nightingale be seen -
Or -
Gathering 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 ‘Brontë’ entered there!
Emily Dickinson
© Wendy Bardsley 2014