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
Upon
Mouths
Ripe
Peach
Fall
Pass
Apples
Clusters
Hands
Wine
Crush
Vine
Life
Summer
Drop
Peaches
Reach
Flowers
Vines
Flower
Grass
Stumbling
Ensnared
Lead
Curious
Wondrous
Luscious
Head
Mouth
August
Melons

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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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And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept their time.
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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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Self-preservation, nature's first great law, all the creatures, except man, doth awe.
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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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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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Annihilating all that's made, To a green thought in a green shade.
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The grave's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace.
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My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow.
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Among the blind the one-eyed blinkard reigns
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Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide.
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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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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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What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head.
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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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How could such sweet and wholesome hours be reckoned, but in herbs and flowers?
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Music, the mosaic of the air.
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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. . . .
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