Emily Dickinson

All Overgrown By Cunning Moss

poem 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!

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