Anne Bradstreet

(1612 – 16 September 1672 / Northampton, England)

Upon A Fit Of Sickness - Poem by Anne Bradstreet

Twice ten years old not fully told
since nature gave me breath,
My race is run, my thread spun,
lo, here is fatal death.
All men must die, and so must I;
this cannot be revoked.
For Adam's sake this word God spake
when he so high provoked.
Yet live I shall, this life's but small,
in place of highest bliss,
Where I shall have all I can crave,
no life is like to this.
For what's this but care and strife
since first we came from womb?
Our strength doth waste, our time doth haste,
and then we go to th' tomb.
O bubble blast, how long can'st last?
that always art a breaking,
No sooner blown, but dead and gone,
ev'n as a word that's speaking.
O whilst I live this grace me give,
I doing good may be,
Then death's arrest I shall count best,
because it's Thy decree;
Bestow much cost there's nothing lost,
to make salvation sure,
O great's the gain, though got with pain,
comes by profession pure.
The race is run, the field is won,
the victory's mine I see;
Forever known, thou envious foe,
the foil belongs to thee.


Comments about Upon A Fit Of Sickness by Anne Bradstreet

  • (2/20/2017 5:31:00 AM)


    this life but small, in place of highest bliss Thanks for sharing it here. (Report) Reply

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  • (3/21/2007 12:13:00 PM)


    Why isn't anyone commenting on my lovely poem! ? ! ? I will find you all, I will hunt you down and eat you and the contents of your refrigerator. (Report) Reply

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Read poems about / on: strength, death, nature, lost, pain, god, life, running



Poem Submitted: Tuesday, December 31, 2002

Poem Edited: Saturday, June 6, 2015


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