Poems by Emily Dickinson, Three Series, Complete · Emily Dickinson
Chapter 54
Chapter 145 of 146 · 1 min read
CHARLOTTE BRONTË'S GRAVE.
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 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!
LV.
A toad can die of light! Death is the common right Of toads and men, — Of earl and midge The privilege. Why swagger then? The gnat's supremacy Is large as thine.
LVI.
Far from love the Heavenly Father Leads the chosen child; Oftener through realm of briar Than the meadow mild,
Oftener by the claw of dragon Than the hand of friend, Guides the little one predestined To the native land.
LVII.
SLEEPING.
A long, long sleep, a famous sleep That makes no show for dawn By stretch of limb or stir of lid, — An independent one.
Was ever idleness like this? Within a hut of stone To bask the centuries away Nor once look up for noon?
