Emily Dickinson Poem

All overgrown by cunning moss

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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!

All the letters I can write
All I may, if small

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