Explore "Charlotte Brontë's Grave" by Emily Dickinson on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
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 / Through 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!