In memory of my dear grand child Anne Bradstreet. Who deceased June 20. 1669. being three years and seven Moneths old

WIth troubled heart & trembling hand I write,
The Heavens have chang'd to sorrow my delight.
How oft with disappointment have I met,
When I on fading things my hopes have set?
Experience might 'fore this have made me wise,
To value things according to their price:
Was ever stable joy yet found below?
Or perfect bliss without mixture of woe.
I knew she was but as a withering flour,
That's here to day perhaps gone in an hour;
Like as a bubble, or the brittle glass,
Or like a shadow turning as it was.
More fool then I to look on that was lent,
As if mine own, when thus impermanent.
Farewel dear child, thou nere shall come to me,
But yet a while, and I shall go to thee,
Mean time my throbbing heart's chear'd up with this
Thou with thy Saviour art in endless bliss.