Quote

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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Andrew Marvell
Age: 57 †
Born: 1621
Born: March 31
Died: 1678
Died: August 16
Poet
Politician
Satirist
Writer
Andrew Marvell
Flower
Grass
Stumbling
Ensnared
Lead
Curious
Wondrous
Luscious
Head
Mouth
August
Melons
Upon
Mouths
Ripe
Peach
Fall
Pass
Apples
Clusters
Hands
Wine
Crush
Vine
Life
Summer
Drop
Peaches
Reach
Flowers
Vines

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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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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 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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Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run
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My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow.
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Annihilating all that's made, To a green thought in a green shade.
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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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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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How fit he is to sway That can so well obey.
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Music, the mosaic of the air.
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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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Among the blind the one-eyed blinkard reigns
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But Fate does iron wedges drive, And always crowds itself betwixt.
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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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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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But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near.
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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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