The Jane Austen Reader
Welcome to the truth. Miss Bingley married Darcy.
Louisa skipped down steps, intact in pink.
Elizabeth grew fat. Anne Elliott took to drink.
But no, you cry. No truth. These deal with love.
They are the books we love. They must be right
To block, like hoods, the crowded glare of trains
Or read alone in bed on Christmas night.
If you have any comments on this poem, Alison Brackenbury would be
pleased to hear from you.