Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet &
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet
Seventeenth-century New England poet, Anne Bradstreet (1612–1672) is considered the first female poet in the New World. Her works, first published in 1650, received considerable favourable attention in the colonies and in England–even George III is said to have kept a copy of her book in his librar...
My head, my heart, mine eyes, my life, nay more,
My joy, my magazine, of earthly store,
If two be one, as surely thou and I,
How stayest thou there, whilst I at Ipswich lie?
So many steps, head from the heart to sever,
If but a neck, soon should we be together.
I, like the Earth this season, mourn in black,
My Sun is gone so far in's zodiac,
Whom whilst I 'joyed, nor storms, nor frost I felt,
His warmth such fridged colds did cause to melt.
My chilled limbs now numbed lie forlorn;
Return; return, sweet Sol, from Capricorn;
In this dead time, alas, what can I more
Than view those fruits which through thy heart I bore?
Which sweet contentment yield me for a space,
True living pictures of their father's face.
O strange effect! now thou art southward gone,
I weary grow the tedious day so long;
But when thou northward to me shalt return,
I wish my Sun may never set, but burn
Within the Cancer of my glowing breast,
The welcome house of him my dearest guest.
Where ever, ever stay, and go not thence,
Till nature's sad decree shall call thee hence;
Flesh of thy flesh, bone of thy bone,
I here, thou there, yet both but one.