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All overgrown by cunning moss

 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!

Poem by Emily Dickinson
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