Dear Jane.. When young I wronged you.
Was repulsed.
I loved and well related to the Haworth girls
But not to you.
Unfairly blamed you for the leisured parasites
You chronicled.
Their seasons at Bath, their Balls, their being seen.
Such pointless lives.
Their daughters schooled as lure for titles, money.
Sad performing dolls.
Securely mounted on the backs of underlings
Who have no name.
Church-sanctioned ‘unter menschen’
GOD “ordered their estate”
To make the oil and water separation
Between each class His will.
But should one charge you with these social norms?
Assume acceptance?
Surely you were prisoner of your time as I of mine
And just as helpless.
And though that play of life you seem not to critique
I’ve now to wonder.
Its players you minute examine with a scalpel keen
Expose their entrails.