Anne Bradstreet sends these lines to her father like a little gift, but immediately she worries it’s not enough. The whole poem feels like someone who’s deeply grateful and a little embarrassed — she uses the language of money and owing to say that everything good in her comes from him. He’s the “principal,” the original source, and she can only offer back this tiny “crumb.” There’s tenderness in how she calls it a “simple mite,” a humble coin. The mood isn’t sad so much as quietly earnest: she knows she can never truly settle what she owes him for her life and talents. So she promises to keep paying in verses while she breathes, until death finally clears the bond. The love here is inseparable from a sense of duty, and the formal, almost legal phrasing makes the affection feel even more deliberate and profound.
To Her Father with Some Verses — Summary
Most truly honoured, and as truly dear, If worth in me or ought I do appear, Who can of right better demand the same Than may your worthy self from whom it came? The principal might yield a greater sum, Yet handled ill, amounts but to this crumb; My stock's so small I know not how to pay, My bond remains in force unto this day; Yet for part payment take this simple mite, Where nothing's to be had, kings loose their right. Such is my debt I may not say forgive, But as I can, I'll pay it while I live; Such is my bond, none can discharge but I, Yet paying is not paid until I die.