In Memory of my Dear Grandchild Anne Bradstreet, who Deceased June 20, 1699, Being Three Years and Seven Months Old

With troubled heart and trembling hand I write.The heavens have changed to sorrow my delight.How oft with disappointment have I metWhen I on fading things my hopes have set.Experience might ‘fore this have made me wiseTo value things according to their price.Was ever stable joy yet found below?Or perfect bliss without mixture of woe?I knew she was but as a withering flower,That’s here today, perhaps gone in an hour;Like as a bubble, or the brittle glass,Or like a shadow turning, as it was.More fool, then, I to look on that was lentAs if mine own, when thus impermanent.Farewell, dear child; thou ne’er shalt come to me,But yet a while and I shall go to thee.Meantime my throbbing heart’s cheered up with this—Thou with thy Savior art in endless bliss.

—1678