Quote

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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Andrew Marvell
Age: 57 †
Born: 1621
Born: March 31
Died: 1678
Died: August 16
Poet
Politician
Satirist
Writer
Andrew Marvell
Doe
Ocean
Seas
States
Green
Gardening
Find
Pleasure
Worlds
Glade
Made
State
Creates
Annihilating
Kind
Happiness
Straight
Withdraws
Mind
Happy
Essentials
Transcending
World
Less
Sea
Meanwhile
Thought
Garden
Resemblance

More quotes by Andrew Marvell

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What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head.
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So much one man can do that does both act and know.
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My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow.
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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.
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How fit he is to sway That can so well obey.
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How could such sweet and wholesome hours be reckoned, but in herbs and flowers?
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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.
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And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept their time.
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And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity.
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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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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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Gather the flowers, but spare the buds.
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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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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.
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Had it lived long, is would have been Lilies without, roses within.
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Had we but world enough, and time, this coyness, lady, were no crime.
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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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Among the blind the one-eyed blinkard reigns
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The grave's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace.
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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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