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And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity.

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
Vast
Desert
Eternity
Lying
Time
Yonder
Chariots
Deserts
Hurrying

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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.
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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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My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow.
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Art indeed is long, but life is short.
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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 could such sweet and wholesome hours be reckoned, but in herbs and flowers?
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But Fate does iron wedges drive, And always crowds itself betwixt.
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But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near.
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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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And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept their time.
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Self-preservation, nature's first great law, all the creatures, except man, doth awe.
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Gather the flowers, but spare the buds.
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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.
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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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The world in all doth but two nations bear- The good, the bad and these mixed everywhere.
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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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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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Had we but world enough, and time, This coyness Lady were no crime. We would sit down, and think which way To walk, and pass our long love's day. Thou by the Indian Ganges'side Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the flood.
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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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