Anne Bradstreet: Все стихи поэта

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We May Live Together

If ever two were one, then surely we.

If ever man were lov'd by wife, then thee.

If ever wife was happy in a man,

Compare with me, ye women, if you can.

I prize thy love more than whole Mines of gold

Or all the riches that the East doth hold.

My love is such that Rivers cannot quench,

Nor ought but love from thee give recompetence.

by Anne Bradstreet

A Love Letter to Her Husband

Phoebus make haste, the day's too long, begone,

The silent night's the fittest time for moan;

But stay this once, unto my suit give ear,

And tell my griefs in either Hemisphere:

(And if the whirling of thy wheels do n't drown'd

The woful accents of my doleful sound),

If in thy swift career thou canst make stay,

I crave this boon, this errand by the way:

by Anne Bradstreet

To her most Honoured Father Thomas Dudley Esq; these humbly presented

Dear Sir of late delighted with the sight

Of your four Sisters cloth'd in black and white,

Of fairer Dames the Sun, ne'r saw the face;

Though made a pedestal for Adams Race;

Their worth so shines in these rich lines you show

Their paralels to finde I scarcely know

To climbe their Climes, I have nor strength nor skill

To mount so high requires an Eagles quill;

by Anne Bradstreet

The Second Monarchy, being the Persian, began underCyrus, Darius being his Uncle and Father-in-la

Cyrus Cambyses Son of Persia King,

Whom Lady Mandana did to him bring,

She daughter unto great Astiages,

He in descent the seventh from Arbaces.

Cambyses was of Achemenes race,

VVho had in Persia the Lieftenants place

VVhen Sardanapalus was overthrown,

And from that time had held it as his own.

by Anne Bradstreet

An EPITAPH On my dear and ever honoured Mother Mrs Dorothy Dudley, who deceased Decemb 27 1643 a

A worthy Matron of unspotted life,

A loving Mother and obedient wife,

A friendly Neighbor, pitiful to poor,

Whom oft she fed, and clothed with her store;

To Servants wisely aweful, but yet kind,

And as they did, so they reward did find:

A true Instructer of her Family,

The which she ordered with dexterity.

by Anne Bradstreet

As weary pilgrim, now at rest

As weary pilgrim, now at rest,

Hugs with delight his silent nest

His wasted limbes, now lye full soft

That myrie steps, haue troden oft

Blesses himself, to think vpon

his dangers past, and travailes done

The burning sun no more shall heat

Nor stormy raines, on him shall beat.

by Anne Bradstreet

On my dear Grand-child Simon Bradstreet, Who dyed on 16 Novemb 1669 being but a moneth, and one d

No sooner come, but gone, and fal'n asleep,

Acquaintance short, yet parting caus'd us weep,

Three flours, two searcely blown, the last i'th' bud,

Cropt by th'Almighties hand; yet is he good,

With dreadful awe before him let's be mute,

Such was his will, but why, let's not dispute,

With humble hearts and mouths put in the dust,

Let's say he's merciful as well as just.

by Anne Bradstreet

Contemplations

Sometime now past in the Autumnal Tide,

When Ph{oe}bus wanted but one hour to bed,

The trees all richly clad, yet void of pride,

Were gilded o're by his rich golden head.

Their leaves and fruits seem'd painted but was true

Of green, of red, of yellow, mixed hew,

Rapt were my senses at this delectable view.

by Anne Bradstreet

Before the Birth of One of Her Children

All things within this fading world hath end,

Adversity doth still our joys attend;

No ties so strong, no friends so dear and sweet,

But with death's parting blow are sure to meet.

The sentence past is most irrevocable,

A common thing, yet oh, inevitable.

How soon, my Dear, death may my steps attend,

How soon't may be thy lot to lose thy friend,

by Anne Bradstreet

The Author to her Book

Thou ill-form'd 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 expos'd 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.

by Anne Bradstreet

Verses upon the Burning of our House, July 18th, 1666

In silent night when rest I took,

For sorrow near I did not look,

I waken'd was with thund'ring noise

And piteous shrieks of dreadful voice.

That fearful sound of "fire" and "fire,"

Let no man know is my Desire.

I starting up, the light did spy,

And to my God my heart did cry

by Anne Bradstreet

In Memory of my Dear Grandchild Anne Bradstreet, who deceased June 20, 1669, being Three Years and S

With troubled heart and trembling hand I write.

The heavens have changed to sorrow my delight.

How oft with dissappointment have I met

When I on fading things my hopes have set.

Experience might 'fore this have made me wise

To value things according to their price.

Was ever stable joy yet found below?

Or perfect bliss without mixture of woe?

by Anne Bradstreet