Feel no obligation to read this.

I usually try to avoid posting long poems or song lyrics, though I'm sure I've done it once or twice... but I may find this resolve a bit more difficult now that I'm taking a poetry class. I hadn't read Anne Bradstreet, puritan poet of the late 1600s, but we just studied her in class and I feel I can quite agree with the general concensus of her actually being the 10th muse. Anyway, I found this poem to be especially poignant. It gives me goose-bumps honestly. So if you should be so inclined to read it, I hope you enjoy this poem by Anne Bradstreet.

Here Follows Some Verses upon the Burning of Our House July 10th, 1666 (quite a name eh?)

In silent night when rest I took
For sorrow near I did not look
I waked was with thund'ring noise
And piteous shrieks of dreadful voice.
That fearful sound of "Fire!" and "Fire!"
Let no man know is my desire.
I, starting up, the light did spy,
And to my God my heart did cry
To strengthen me in my distress
And not to leave me succorless.
Then, coming out, beheld a space
The flame consume my dwelling place.
And when I could no longer look,
I blest His name that gave and took,
That laid my goods now in the dust.
Yea, so it was, and so 'twas just.
It was His own, it was not mine,
Far be it that I should repine;
He might of all justly bereft
But yet sufficient for us left.
When by the ruins oft I past
My sorrowing eyes aside did cast,
And here and there the places spy
Where oft I sat and long did lie:
Here stood that trunk, and there that chest,
There lay that store I counted best.
My pleasant things in ashes lie,
And them behold no more shall I.
Under thy roof no guest shall sit,
Nor at thy table eat a bit.
No pleasant tale shall e'er be told,
Nor things recounted done of old.
No candle e'er shall shine in thee,
Nor bridegroom's voice e'er heard shall be.
In silence ever shall thou lie,
Adieu, Adieu, all's vanity.
Then straight I 'gin my heart to chide,
And did thy wealth on earth abide?
Didst fix thy hope on mold'ring dust?
The arm of flesh didst make thy trust?
Raise up thy thoughts above the sky
That dunghill mists away may fly.
Thou hast an house on high erect,
Framed by that mighty Architect,
With glory richly furnished,
Stands permanent though this be fled.
It's purchased and paid for too
By Him who hath enough to do.
A price so vast as is unknown
Yet by His gift is made thine own;
There's wealth enough, I need no more,
Farewell, my pelf, farewell my store.
The world no longer let me love,
My hope and treasure lies above.

True this poem is an excellent example of Iambic Tetrameter, uses much biblical allusion, and has a strong consistent AA,BB ryhme scheme - but hopefully any of you who read it got a little more than that out of it. I know I did. Guess we could learn a bit from the puritans eh?

In other news, I went to the doctor today and he gave me antibiotics so I now have hope that this blasted sickness I've had since before Christmas (serioulsy, I'm not exaggerating) might actually be on the way to getting better! Hooray!