Lyrics

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
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!