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Emily Dickinson

All Overgrown by Cunning Moss

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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