 A letter to her husband, absent upon public employment, by Anne Bradstreet, read for LibriVox.org by Corrie Samuel. My head, my heart, mine eyes, my life, nay more, my joy, my magazine of earthly store. If to be one, as surely thou and I, how stayest thou there, whilst I at Ipswich lie? So many steps, head from the heart to sever. If but a neck, soon should we be together. I, like the earth this season, mourn in black, my son is gone so far in his zodiac. Whom, whilst I joyed, nor storms, nor frost, I felt, his warmth such fridged colds did cause to melt. My chilled limbs now numbed, lie forlorn, return, return, sweet soul, from Capricorn. In this dead time, alas, what can I mourn, than view those fruits which through thy heart I bore? Which sweet contentment yield me for a space, true living pictures of their father's face? Oh, strange effect, now thou art southward gone. I weary, grow the tedious days so long. But when thou northward to me shalt return, I wish my son may never set, but burn within the cancer of my glowing breast, the welcome house of him, my dearest guest. Wherever, ever stay, and go not thence, till nature's sad decree shall call thee hence. I let her to her husband, absent upon public employment, by Anne Bradstreet, read for LibriVox.org by Algie Pug, Perth, Western Australia. My head, my heart, my eyes, my life, nay more my joy, my magazine of earthly store. If two be one, assuredly thou and I, I'll stay as thou there, whilst I at Ipswich lie. So many steps head from the heart to sever, if but a neck soon should we be together. I, like the earth this season, mourn in black, my son is gone so far in Sodiak, whom whilst I joyed, nor storms, nor frost I felt, his warmth such frigid colds did cause to melt. My chilled limbs now numbed, lie forlorn. Return, return, sweet soul, from Capricorn, in this dead time alas, what can I more than view those fruits which through thy heart I bore? Which sweet contentment yield me for a space through living pictures of their father's face? O strange effect, now thou art southward gone, I weary grow the tedious day so long. But when thou northward to me shalt return, I wish my son may never set, but burn within the cancer of my glowing breast, the welcome house of him, my dearest guest. Wherever, ever stay, and not go thence, till nature's sad decree shall call thee hence. Flesh of thy flesh, bone of thy bone, I hear, thou there, yet both but one. A letter to her husband, absent upon public employment, by Ann Bradstreet, read for LibriVox.org by David Lawrence. My head, my heart, mine eyes, my life, nay more, my joy, my magazine of earthly store. If to be one, as surely thou and I, how stayest thou there, while I at Ipswich lie? So many steps, head from the heart to sever, if but a neck, soon should we be together. I, like the earth this season, mourn in black, my son is gone so far in Zodiac. Whom whilst I joyed, nor storms, nor frost I felt, his warmth such frigid colds did cause to melt. My chilled limbs now numbed, lie forlorn. Return, return, sweet soul, from Capricorn, in this dead time, alas, what can I more than view those fruits through which thy heart I bore? Which sweet contentment yield me for a space, true living pictures of their father's face? O strange effect, now thou art southward gone, I weary grow the tedious day so long. But when thou northward to me shall return, I wish my son may never set, but burn within the cancer of my glowing breast, the welcome house of him, my dearest guest. Wherever ever stay, and go not hence, till nature's sad decree shall call thee hence. Flesh of thy flesh, bone of thy bone. Your eye, thou there, yet both but one. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Letter to Her Husband, Absent upon Public Employment By Ann Bradstreet Read for LibriVox.org by Leanne Howlett My head, my heart, my eyes, my life, nay more, my joy, my magazine, of earthly store, if two be one, as surely thou and I, how staiest thou there, whilst I at Ipswich lie? So many steps, head from the heart to sever, if but a neck, soon should we be together. I, like the earth this season, mourn in black, my son is gone so far in Zodiac, whom whilst I joyed, nor storms nor frost I felt, his warmth such frigid colds did cause to melt. My chilled limbs now numbed, lie forlorn, return, return, sweet Saul, from Capricorn. In this dead time, alas, what can I more than view those fruits which through thy heart I bore? Which sweet contentment yield me for a space, true living pictures of their father's face? O strange effect, now thou art southward gone, I weary grow the tedious day so long. But when thou northward to me shalt return, I wish my son may never set, but burn within the cancer of my glowing breast, the welcome house of him, my dearest guest. Wherever ever stay and go not fence, till nature's sad decree shall call thee hence. Flesh of thy flesh, bone of thy bone, I hear thou there, yet both but one. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A letter to her husband, absent upon public employment by Anne Bradstreet, read for LibriVox.org by Lawrence Lawson. My head, my head, mine eyes, my life, nay more, my joy, my magazine of earthly store, if to be one as surely thou and I, how stayest thou there whilst I at Ipswich lie? So many steps head from the heart to sever, but if a neck soon should we be together. I, like the earth this season, mourn in black. My son is gone so far in Zodiac, whom whilst I joyed, nor storms, nor frost I felt, his warmth such frigid colds did cause to melt. My chilled limbs now numbed lie forlorn, return, return, sweet soul, from Capricorn. In this dead time alas, what can I mourn? Then view those fruits which through thy heart I bore. Which sweet contentment yield me for a space, true living pictures of their father's face. O strange effect, now thou art southward gone, I weary grow the tedious day so long. But when thou northward to me shalt return, I wish my son may never set, but burn within the cancer of my glowing breast. The welcome house of him my dearest guest, wherever, ever stay, and go not fence. Till nature's sad decree shall call thee hence, flesh of thy flesh, bone of thy bone, I hear thou there, yet both but one. A letter to her husband, absent upon public employment, by Anne Bradstreet, read for LibriVox.org by Mark Rochet. My head, my heart, my eyes, my life, nay more, my joy, my magazine of earthly store. If two be one, as surely thou and I, how stayeth thou there whilst I at Ipswich lie? So many steps, head from the heart to sever, if but a neck, should soon we be together. I, like the earth this season, mourn in black, my son is gone so far in Zodiac. Whom whilst I joyed, nor storms, nor frost I felt, his warmth such frigid colds did cause to melt. My chilled limbs now numbed, lie forlorn, return, return, sweet Saul, from Capricorn. In this dead time, alas, what can I mourn, than view those fruits which through thy heart I bore? Which sweet contentment yield me for a space, true living pictures of their father's face? O strange effect, now thou art southward gone, I weary grow the tedious day so long. But when thou northward to me shalt return, I wish my son may never set but burn, within the cancer of my glowing breast, the welcome home of him, my dearest guest. Never ever stay, and go not thence, till nature's sad decree shall call the hence. Flesh of thy flesh, bone of thy bone, I hear, thou there, yet both but one. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A letter to her husband, absent upon public employment, by Anne Grant Street. For LibriVox.org by R. D. Parker. My head, my heart, mine eyes, my life, may more, my joy, my magazine of earthly store. If to be one, as surely thou and I, how staiest thou there, must I at Ipswich lie? So many steps, head from the heart to sever. If but a neck, soon should we be together. I, like the earth this season, mourn in black. My son is gone so far in Zodiac, whomce whilst I joyed, nor storms nor frost I felt, his warmth such frigid colds did cause to melt. My chilled limbs now numbed lie forlorn. Return, return, sweet soul, from Capricorn. In this dead time, alas, what can I, more than view those fruits, which through thy heart I bore? Which sweet contentment yield me for a space? True living pictures of their father's face. O strange effect! Now thou art southward gone, I weary grow, the tedious stays so long. But when thou northward to me shalt return, I wish my son may never set, but burn within the cancer of my glowing breast, the welcome house of him, my dearest guest. Where ever, ever stay, and go not hence, till nature's sad decree shall call thee hence. Flesh of thy flesh, bone of thy bone, I hear, thou there, will get both but one, and of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A letter to her husband, absent upon public employment, by Anne Bradstreet, read for LibriVox.org by Ruth Golding. My head, my heart, mine eyes, my life, nay more, my joy, my magazine of earthly store, Give two be one, as surely thou and I. How stares thou there whilst I at Ipswich lie? So many steps head from the heart to sever, if but a neck, soon should we be together. I like the earth this season, mornin' black, my son is gone so far in Zodiac. Morn whilst I joy'd, nor storm's nor frost I felt, his warmth such frigid cold did cause to melt, my chilled limbs now numbed lie forlorn. Return, return, sweet soul, from Capricorn. In this dead time alas, what can I more than view those fruits which through thy heart I bore? Which sweet contentment yield me for a space? True living pictures of their father's face. O strange effect, now thou art southward gone, I weary grow the tedious day so long. But when thou northward to me shalt return, I wish my son may never set, but burn within the cancer of my glowing breast, the welcome house of him, my dearest guest. Wherever ever stay, and go not thence, till nature's sad decree shall call thee hence. Flesh of thy flesh, bone of thy bone, I hear, thou there, yet both but one. A letter to her husband, absent upon public employment, by Anne Bradstreet, read for LibriVox.org by Raven Notation. My head, my heart, mine eyes, my life, nay, more, my joy, my magazine of earthly store, have two be one, as surely thou and I, how staiest thou there, while I at Ipswich lie. So many steps, head from the heart to sever, if but a neck, soon should we be together. I, like the earth this season, mourn in black, my son is gone so far in zodiac, whom whilst I joyed, nor storms, nor frost I felt, his warmth, such frigid colds, did cause to melt. My chilled limbs, now numbed, lie fallen, return, return, sweet soul, from Capricorn. In this dead time, alas, what can I more than view those fruits which through thy heart eyeball? Which sweet contentment yield me for a space, true living pictures of their father's face? O strange effect, now thou art southward gone, I weary grow the tedious day so long, but when thou northward to me shall return, I wish my son may never set but burn within the cancer of my glowing breast, the welcome house of him, my dearest guest. Wherever ever stay and go not fence, till nature's sad decree shall call thee hence, flesh of thy flesh, bone of thy bone, I hear thou there, yet both but one, end of poem. This recording is in the public domain.