Quote

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

More quotes by 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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Art indeed is long, but life is short.
Andrew Marvell
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And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity.
Andrew Marvell
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No white nor red was ever seen So am'rous as this lovely green. Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, Cut in these trees their mistress' name. Little, alas, they know or heed How far these beauties hers exceed! Fair trees! where s'e'er your barks I wound, No name shall but your own be found.
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.
Andrew Marvell
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Now let us sport us while we may And now, like amorous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour, Than languish in his slow-chapped power.
Andrew Marvell
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Twas beyond a mortal's share To wander solitary there: Two paradises 'twere in one To live in paradise alone.
Andrew Marvell
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How fit he is to sway That can so well obey.
Andrew Marvell
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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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My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow.
Andrew Marvell
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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.
Andrew Marvell
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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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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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The grave's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace.
Andrew Marvell
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Ye country comets, that portend No war, nor prince's funeral, Shining unto no higher end Than to presage the grasses fall. . . .
Andrew Marvell
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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.
Andrew Marvell
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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.
Andrew Marvell
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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.
Andrew Marvell
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Gather the flowers, but spare the buds.
Andrew Marvell
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Had it lived long, is would have been Lilies without, roses within.
Andrew Marvell