Thou ill-form'd offspring of my feeble brain, <br /> Who after birth did'st by my side remain, <br /> Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise than true, <br /> Who thee abroad expos'd to public view, <br /> Made thee in rags, halting to th' press to trudge, <br /> Where errors were not lessened (all may judge). <br /> At thy return my blushing was not small, <br /> My rambling brat (in print) should mother call. <br /> I cast thee by as one unfit for light, <br /> Thy Visage was so irksome in my sight, <br /> Yet being mine own, at length affection would <br /> Thy blemishes amend, if so I could. <br /> I wash'd thy face, but more defects I saw, <br /> And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw. <br /> I stretcht thy joints to make thee even feet, <br /> Yet still thou run'st more hobbling than is meet. <br /> In better dress to trim thee was my mind, <br /> But nought save home-spun Cloth, i' th' house I find. <br /> In this array, 'mongst Vulgars mayst thou roam. <br /> In Critics' hands, beware thou dost not come, <br /> And take thy way where yet thou art not known. <br /> If for thy Father askt, say, thou hadst none; <br /> And for thy Mother, she alas is poor, <br /> Which caus'd her thus to send thee out of door.<br /><br />Anne Bradstreet<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-author-to-her-book/
