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 The withdrawn?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.
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