Anne Bradstreet

My race is run, my thread spun,lo, here is fatal death.All men must die, and so must I;this cannot be revoked.For Adam’s sake this word God spakewhen he so high provoked.Yet live I shall, this life’s but small,in place of highest bliss,Where I shall have all I can crave,no life is like to this.For what’s…

Perplext, in every bush and nook doth pry,Her dearest deer, might answer ear or eye;So doth my anxious soul, which now doth missA dearer dear (far dearer heart) than this.Still wait with doubts, and hopes, and failing eye,His voice to hear or person to descry.Or as the pensive dove doth all alone(On withered bough) most…