Through topiaries, halls refined,
Ms. Austen flits by hummingbird
about emotion, deed, and word,
delighting, darting unconfined,
observing households, human needs,
high prides of blithe societies,
their poverties and wretched greeds,
those subtle sensibilities
unseen unless you travel spry
- like lively lark with eagle eye -
to show some soul beneath a face,
these petals shed behind the vase,
persuasions posed, if posthumous,
plain truths beyond the decorous,
that afterglow of candles blown,
and nectar left when time has flown.
She whisks past parks, estates, and lakes,
by weddings, dances, crops, and cakes,
collecting insights on the way
so that her tales still speak today.