Theme
Writing a book has challenges and rewards just as in a relationship, in this case between a mother and a child.
I washed thy face, but more defects i saw,
And rubbing off a spot still made a flaw.
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, if so I could:
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But nought save homespun cloth i' th' house I find.
I stretched thy joints to make thee even feet
Yet still thou run'st more hobbling than is meet;
Poem
Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth didst by my side remain,
Till snatched 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,
If for thy father asked, say thou hadst none;
And for thy mother, she alas is poor,
Which caused her thus to send thee out of door.
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;
Literary Elements
"The Author to Her Book" is a metaphor comparing an author's process in writing to raising a child.
"The Author to Her Book"
Anne Bradstreet