LIV
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, 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 meetCan nightingale be seen.
Gathered from many wanderings,Gethsemane can tellThrough what transporting anguishShe reached the asphodel!
Soft fall the sounds of EdenUpon her puzzled ear;Oh, what an afternoon for heaven,When ‘Brontë’ entered there!