I wash’d thy face but more defects I saw

I found this wonderful poem on an American website by simply Googling ‘poems about writing.’  Check it out on www.judithpordon.tripod.com.

Even though The Author To Her Book by Anne Bradsheet was written so long ago I think it sums up perfectly how it feels to post a ‘finished’ book off as I did yesterday.

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 three abroad, expos’d to publick view,

Made thee in raggs, halting to the press to trudge,

Where errors were not lessened (all might 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,

Thy visage was so irksome in my sight:

Yet being mine own, at length affection would

Thy blemishes amend, of so I could:

I washe’d thy face, but more defects I saw,

And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.

I stretcht thy joynts 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 mayst thou roam,

In Criticks 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 caus’d her thus to send thee out of door.

Anne Bradsheet (1612-1672)