Brontë

Not what I seem, this truth I know

What I wish—or am—has yet to be told

If Jane at heart, I have found no master

Good fortune banished

Lest I discover objects

For my romantic heart

I have known precious moments

But do they sustain?

I survive, profit from feats

Though while humble

Would have liked a better lot

I surpass local folk

Despite being both mocked and admired

I do not wish to be a strange thing.

...but there is no escaping facts.

So who am I then? I am far from sure

I know what: determined, loving

Fearsome to behold.

But who? The spinster? The withdrawn?

Writer? Daughter? Sister?

A woman can be many things

And the artist should not fret over definition;

Make of me what you will.