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Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run

Andrew Marvell

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Andrew Marvell
Age: 57 †
Born: 1621
Born: March 31
Died: 1678
Died: August 16
Poet
Politician
Satirist
Writer
Andrew Marvell
Cannot
Stills
Still
Make
Thus
Sun
Stand
Though
Running

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The world in all doth but two nations bear- The good, the bad and these mixed everywhere.
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Had we but world enough, and time, this coyness, lady, were no crime.
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What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine The nectarine and curious peach Into my hands themselves do reach Stumbling on melons, as I pass, Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.
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Music, the mosaic of the air.
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He nothing common did, or mean, / Upon that memorable scene, / But with his keener eye / The axe's edge did try.
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What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head.
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Twas beyond a mortal's share To wander solitary there: Two paradises 'twere in one To live in paradise alone.
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Among the blind the one-eyed blinkard reigns
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Had it lived long, is would have been Lilies without, roses within.
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Let us roll all our strength, and all Our sweetness, up into one ball: And tear our pleasures with rough strife, Through the iron gates of life. Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.
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As lines, so loves oblique, may well Themselves in every angle greet But ours, so truly parallel, Though infinite, can never meet.
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Like the vain curlings of the watery maze, Which in smooth streams a sinking weight does raise, So Man, declining always, disappears In the weak circles of increasing years And his short tumults of themselves compose, While flowing Time above his head does close.
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This indigested vomit of the Sea,Fell to the Dutch by Just Propriety.
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Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide.
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How fit he is to sway That can so well obey.
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My love is of a birth as rare As 'tis, for object, strange and high It was begotten by Despair Upon Impossibility.
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How could such sweet and wholesome hours be reckoned, but in herbs and flowers?
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Therefore the love which us doth bind, But fate so enviously debars, Is the conjunction of the mind, And opposition of the stars.
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I have a garden of my own, But so with roses overgrown, And lilies, that you would it guess To be a little wilderness.
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My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow.
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