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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.

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
Strange
Begotten
High
Unrequited
Upon
Impossibility
Love
Rare
Object
Despair
Birth
Objects

More quotes by Andrew Marvell

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Though I carry always some ill-nature about me, yet it is, I hope, no more than is in this world necessary for a preservative.
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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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But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near.
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The grave's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace.
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And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept their time.
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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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Art indeed is long, but life is short.
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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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So much one man can do that does both act and know.
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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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Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide.
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Had it lived long, is would have been Lilies without, roses within.
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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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Among the blind the one-eyed blinkard reigns
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My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow.
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This indigested vomit of the Sea,Fell to the Dutch by Just Propriety.
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See how the Orient dew, Shed from the bosom of the morn Into the blowing roses, Yet careless of its mansion new For the clear region where 'twas born Round in its self encloses: And in its little globes extent, Frames as it can its native element.
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Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run
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How vainly men themselves amaze To win the palm, the oak, or bays And their uncessant labours see Crown'd from some single herb or tree. Whose short and narrow verged shade Does prudently their toils upbraid While all flow'rs and all trees do close To weave the garlands of repose.
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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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