Charlotte Brontë in Leeds Point

    From her window marshland stretched for miles.

    If not for egrets and gulls， it reminded her of the moors

    behind the parsonage， how the fog often hovered

    and descended as if sheltering some sweet compulsion

    the age was not ready to see. On clear days the jagged

    skyline of Atlantic City was visible——Atlantic City，

    where all compulsions had a home.

    "Everything's too easy now，" she said to her neighbor，

    "nothing resisted， nothing gained." Once， at eighteen，

    she dreamed of London's proud salons glowing

    with brilliant fires and dazzling chandeliers.

    Already her own person——passionate， assertive——

    soon she'd create a governess insistent on rights equal

    to those above her rank. "The dangerous picture

    of a natural heart，" one offended critic carped.

    She'd failed， he said， to let religion reign

    over the passions and， worse， she was a woman.

    Now she was amazed at what women had，

    doubly amazed at what they didn't.

    But she hadn't come back to complain or haunt.

    Her house on the bay was modest， adequate.