Anne Bradstreet (1612 – 16 September 1672 / Northampton, England)
To finish what's begun, was my intent,
My thoughts and my endeavours thereto bent;
Essays I many made but still gave out,
The more I mus'd, the more I was in doubt:
The subject large my mind and body weak,
With many moe discouragements did speak.
All thoughts of further progress laid aside,
Though oft perswaded, I as oft deny'd,
At length resolv'd, when many years had past,
To prosecute my story to the last;
And for the same, I hours not few did spend,
And weary lines (though lanke) I many pen'd:
But 'fore I could accomplish my desire,
My papers fell a prey to th'raging fire.
And thus my pains (with better things) I lost,
Which none had cause to wail, nor I to boast.
No more I'le do sith I have suffer'd wrack,
Although my Monarchies their legs do lack:
Nor matter is't this last, the world now sees,
Hath many Ages been upon his knees.
Poet Other Poems
- A Dialogue between Old England and New
- A Letter to Her Husband
- A Love Letter to Her Husband
- An Apology
- An EPITAPH On my dear and ever honoured ...
- Another (II)
- As spring the winter doth succeed
- As weary pilgrim, now at rest
- Author to her Book, The
- Before the Birth of One of Her Children
- By Night when Others Soundly Slept
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Contemplations by Anne Bradstreet )
Top 500 Poems
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
William Ernest Henley