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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
Stand
Though
Running
Cannot
Stills
Still
Make
Thus
Sun

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Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide.
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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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This indigested vomit of the Sea,Fell to the Dutch by Just Propriety.
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Had we but world enough, and time, this coyness, lady, were no crime.
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And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity.
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Art indeed is long, but life is short.
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But Fate does iron wedges drive, And always crowds itself betwixt.
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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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Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, Withdraws into its happiness The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find Yet it creates, transcending these, Far other worlds, and other seas Annihilating all that's made To a green thought in a green glade ... Such was that happy garden-state.
Andrew Marvell
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Annihilating all that's made, To a green thought in a green shade.
Andrew Marvell
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But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near.
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Had it lived long, is would have been Lilies without, roses within.
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Music, the mosaic of the air.
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The grave's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace.
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Self-preservation, nature's first great law, all the creatures, except man, doth awe.
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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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My mind was once the true survey Of all these meadows fresh and gay And in the greenness of the grass Did see its hopes as in a glass.
Andrew Marvell
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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.
Andrew Marvell
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And now, when I have summed up all my store, Thinking (so I myself deceive) So rich a chaplet thence to weave As never yet the King of Glory wore, Alas! I find the serpent old, That, twining in his speckled breast, About the flowers disguised does fold With wreaths of fame and interest.
Andrew Marvell
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Among the blind the one-eyed blinkard reigns
Andrew Marvell