Quote

How vainly men themselves amaze, / To win the palm, the oak, or bays / And their incessant labours see / Crowned from some single herb or tree.

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
Single
Amaze
Tree
Crowned
Winning
Incessant
Men
Herbs
Bays
Oaks
Upbraid
Palm
Vainly
Palms
Labours
Labour
Herb

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My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow.
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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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Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide.
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And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity.
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What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head.
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How fit he is to sway That can so well obey.
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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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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 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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Gather the flowers, but spare the buds.
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But Fate does iron wedges drive, And always crowds itself betwixt.
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Self-preservation, nature's first great law, all the creatures, except man, doth awe.
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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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Had we but world enough, and time, this coyness, lady, were no crime.
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Music, the mosaic of the air.
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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.
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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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Annihilating all that's made, To a green thought in a green shade.
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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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