All overgrown by cunning moss,

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 --

Or --

Gathered 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 "Bronte" entered there!