Part 70

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?

LVIII.

RETROSPECT.

'T was just this time last year I died. I know I heard the corn, When I was carried by the farms, -- It had the tassels on.

I thought how yellow it would look When Richard went to mill; And then I wanted to get out, But something held my will.

I thought just how red apples wedged The stubble's joints between; And carts went stooping round the fields To take the pumpkins in.

I wondered which would miss me least, And when Thanksgiving came, If father'd multiply the plates To make an even sum.

And if my stocking hung too high, Would it blur the Christmas glee, That not a Santa Claus could reach The altitude of me?

But this sort grieved myself, and so I thought how it would be When just this time, some perfect year, Themselves should come to me.

LIX.

ETERNITY.

On this wondrous sea, Sailing silently, Ho! pilot, ho! Knowest thou the shore Where no breakers roar, Where the storm is o'er?

In the silent west Many sails at rest, Their anchors fast; Thither I pilot thee, -- Land, ho! Eternity! Ashore at last!