Anne Bradstreet has been one of my favorite poets since I first “discovered” her in my college sophomore American literature class. The heart and spirit that shines through her poems belies the premise that the Puritans were dour and humorless. She was one of America’s first poets and one of the first women to have a book published.

Probably one of her most well-known and favorite poems is To My Dear and Loving Husband, which begins with the lines, “If ever two were one, then surely we. If ever man were lov’d by wife, then thee.” Another of my favorites is The Author To Her Book, which begins, “Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain…” I just love the way that sounds! By Night While Others Soundly Slept touched my heart with her seeking communion with her Lord late at night.

But my friend Bet pointed me to one of Anne’s poems with which I was not familiar, Verses Upon the Burning of Our House. The title clearly states the subject. The first lines describe the surprise and fear of finding her home in flames with earnest prayer for the Lord’s comfort. Job-like, “I blest his grace that gave and took,” and she acknowledges God’s ownership of all she has and His right to do with it as He will.

Yet she begins to grieve for the special, precious things lost, the particular familiar and treasured bits of a woman’s nesting instinct.

My sorrowing eyes aside did cast
And here and there the places spy
Where oft I sate 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.

Then she reminds herself of the impermanence of treasures here on earrth and “sets her affection of things above“:

Then straight I ‘gin my heart to chide:
And did thy wealth on earth abide,
Didst fix thy hope on mouldring dust,
The arm of flesh didst make thy trust?
Raise up thy thoughts above the sky
That dunghill mists away may fly.
Thou hast a house on high erect
Fram’d 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.

Often as I have read older stories and biographies I’ve been struck by how closely they lived with loss. We have fires, floods, and such now, too, of course, but such catastrophes happen much less often now due to safety factors implemented as a result of previous disasters. Yet even though materials things may last longer now, they still won’t last forever, and our treasures are best laid up in heaven.

Poetry Friday is at Read Imagine Talk today.