By anonymous
It will not stir for doctors,
This Pendulum of snow
The shopman importunes
While cool, concernless No
Nods from the Gilded pointers
Nods from Seconds slim,
Decades of arrogance between
The dial life and him.
CXXXVI
All overgrown by cunning
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 any 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!
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!
I CAN
FINALLY
SEE
ME.
FINALLY
SEE
ME.