Thou ill-form'd offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth did'st by my side remain,
Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise than true,
Who thee abroad expos'd to public view,
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In this array, 'mongst Vulgars mayst thou roam. In Critics' hands, beware thou dost not come...…..wise advice to her creations!
interesting extended metaphor. feeble brain? obviously not. but i suppose we can excuse this as we can all hyperbole and that this is long before women's liberation.
Whatever it is, each book is the child of the Author! Today I have 131 children!
interesting extended metaphor. feeble brain? obviously not. but i suppose we can excuse this as we can all hyperbole and that this is long before women's liberation. i wonder which poets anne considered good or great considering her estimation of her own work. gk
I enjoyed this a year ago and I still enjoy it today. Our novels and our poems are truly our children
Loved it! We go through this very thing with the poems we write, the short stories we send off, the terror of sending off a novel. Love the comparison to a child- that lent humor as well as truth to this.
This is an autobiographical poem about the relationship between an artist and his work, a relationship often fraught with difficulty and disappointment.....brilliantly scripted......10++