This is just a little homage to all women writers and poets.
In this poem she wrote about her book as if it were her child.........this literary device is known as extender metaphor.
Anne Bradstreet has been called the grandmother of American literature.
If you want to read more poems, remember that they were written in the XVII century, so you might find them a little bit more difficult. But if you're really interested and would like more information about technical details, such as her use of the iambic pentameter, the most common metrical form in English poetry, this link might be useful.
The Author to Her Book
Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain, Who after birth didst by my side remain, Till snatched from thence by friends, less wise than true, Who thee abroad, exposed to public view, Made thee in rags, halting to th’ press to trudge, Where errors were not lessened (all may judge). At thy return my blushing was not small, My rambling brat (in print) should mother call, I cast thee by as one unfit for light, The visage was so irksome in my sight; Yet being mine own, at length affection would Thy blemishes amend, if so I could. I washed thy face, but more defects I saw, And rubbing off a spot still made a flaw. I stretched thy joints to make thee even feet, Yet still thou run’st more hobbling than is meet; In better dress to trim thee was my mind, But nought save homespun cloth i’ th’ house I find. In this array ‘mongst vulgars may’st thou roam. In critic’s hands beware thou dost not come, And take thy way where yet thou art not known; If for thy father asked, say thou hadst none; And for thy mother, she alas is poor, Which caused her thus to send thee out of door.
