The poem An apology is about those words she wanted to say, but was never able to do. This is a poem, about how a poetess struggles with the discouragement and the legacy of a fire, that burned her house on July 10th 1666. She felt, there was need to apologize.
The apology of Anne Bradstreet
The fire that took place on July 10th 1666 in the house were Anne Bradstreet lived, did not only result in the death of one of her daughters. Most of her work and her books were destroyed. The poetry legacy she left when she died, could have been much bigger, than it is today.
The fire was a moment, that prevented her from writing. It meant a difficult period for the Bradstreet family. Bradstreet finds herself, apologizing for something she hasn’t done.
She wanted to finish, what she had started and what was destroyed. Her doubts about this, conflict with the poem Here follow some verses upon the burning of our house, July 10th 1666. In this poem, she claimed that her loved ones, who died during this fire, were in a better place. The fire was a new start. But, it made her realize, things did change, and she felt she should be apologizing for this.
If you are interested in this poetess and want to analyse her work, you are more than welcome to write for The Ministry of Poetic Affairs. Contact us for more information.
To finish what’s begun, was my intent,
My thoughts and my endeavours thereto bent;
Essays I many made but still gave out,
The more I mus’d, the more I was in doubt:
The subject large my mind and body weak,
With many moe discouragements did speak.
All thoughts of further progress laid aside,
Though oft perswaded, I as oft deny’d,
At length resolv’d, when many years had past,
To prosecute my story to the last;
And for the same, I hours not few did spend,
And weary lines (though lanke) I many pen’d:
But ‘fore I could accomplish my desire,
My papers fell a prey to th’raging fire.
And thus my pains (with better things) I lost,
Which none had cause to wail, nor I to boast.
No more I’le do sith I have suffer’d wrack,
Although my Monarchies their legs do lack:
Nor matter is’t this last, the world now sees,
Hath many Ages been upon his knees.