Guarded by the un-oiled door,
She etched her art
On leaves of Ivory, which still today
Can pierce the heart.

Her life was brief:
Her books will never die.
Her legacy to us
Is a Standard flying high.

Jousting with human virtues,
Human vice,
Her conquests make it
Easier to be nice.

Her gentle humour,
Irony and wit
Enshrined unselfishness,
True love – and grit.

In Winchester she mined
Her ore’s most tragic lode
And metamorphosed wounded glances,
Whispered names and sighs
Into ‘Persuasion’s’ magic remorse code…