Quote

I have a garden of my own, But so with roses overgrown, And lilies, that you would it guess To be a little wilderness.

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
Garden
Flower
Littles
Overgrown
Little
Lilies
Would
Roses
Wilderness
Rose
Guess

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The grave's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace.
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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.
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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 could such sweet and wholesome hours be reckoned, but in herbs and flowers?
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Among the blind the one-eyed blinkard reigns
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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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This indigested vomit of the Sea,Fell to the Dutch by Just Propriety.
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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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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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Had we but world enough, and time, this coyness, lady, were no crime.
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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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The world in all doth but two nations bear- The good, the bad and these mixed everywhere.
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But Fate does iron wedges drive, And always crowds itself betwixt.
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Music, the mosaic of the air.
Andrew Marvell
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And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity.
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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. . . .
Andrew Marvell
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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.
Andrew Marvell
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Annihilating all that's made, To a green thought in a green shade.
Andrew Marvell
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My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow.
Andrew Marvell