Anne+Bradstreet

Anne Bradstreet 1612-1672

Anne Bradstreet is considered to be one of the most important poets of American Literature. She wrote about the daily struggles of being a wife dealing with colonial New England. She had to endure moving to a completely new land as well as her constant sickness, which impacted the tone in which she wrote her poems. She wrote poems mainly when her husband, the governor was away and she was lonely, despite her children to keep her company. She didn’t like to get caught up in material items, but rather in humanity and spirituality, which many people agree, make her a good role model. Her poetic style is simple, but it is written for highly educated women. Her poems talk a lot about love and faith.

> By night when others soundly slept > And hath at once both ease and Rest, > My waking eyes were open kept > And so to lie I found it best. > > > I sought him whom my Soul did Love, > With tears I sought him earnestly. > He bow'd his ear down from Above. > In vain I did not seek or cry. > > > My hungry Soul he fill'd with Good; > He in his Bottle put my tears, > My smarting wounds washt in his blood, > And banisht thence my Doubts and fears. > > > What to my Saviour shall I give > Who freely hath done this for me? > I'll serve him here whilst I shall live > And Loue him to Eternity. ||
 * > By Night when Others Soundly Slept || ||

> Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain, > Who after birth did'st by my side remain, > Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise than true, > Who thee abroad exposed to public view, > Made thee in rags, halting to th' press to trudge, > Where errors were not lessened (all may judge). > At thy return my blushing was not small, > My rambling brat (in print) should mother call. > I cast thee by as one unfit for light, > The visage was so irksome in my sight, > Yet being mine own, at length affection would > Thy blemishes amend, if so I could. > I washed thy face, but more defects I saw, > And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw. > I stretcht thy joints to make thee even feet, > Yet still thou run'st more hobbling than is meet. > In better dress to trim thee was my mind, > But nought save home-spun cloth, i' th' house I find. > In this array, 'mongst vulgars may'st thou roam. > In critic's hands, beware thou dost not come, > And take thy way where yet thou art not known. > If for thy father askt, say, thou hadst none; > And for thy mother, she alas is poor, > Which caused her thus to send thee out of door. ||
 * > The Author To Her Book || ||