THOUGH ANNE BRADSTREET is the definition of a bland 17th-century poet who has little to say, her poem “The Author to Her Book” is a pleasant exception to the rule.

Authors are never happy with their books, and Bradstreet captures this dissatisfaction perfectly. No matter what the speaker in this poem does, her creative work never turns out how she wants.

In addition, the personification of the book in question is creative and innovative.

Read her poem and relate to the emotions she so effectively conveys.

“THE AUTHOR TO HER BOOK”
by Anne Bradstreet

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.

Read more of Bradstreet’s poetry here.