Quote

As lines, so loves oblique, may well Themselves in every angle greet But ours, so truly parallel, Though infinite, can never meet.

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
Wells
Angle
Well
Loves
Every
Infinite
Never
Meet
Love
Truly
Oblique
Lines
Greet
Though
Parallel
May
Parallels

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My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow.
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But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near.
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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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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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The grave's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace.
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This indigested vomit of the Sea,Fell to the Dutch by Just Propriety.
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What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head.
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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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But Fate does iron wedges drive, And always crowds itself betwixt.
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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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Music, the mosaic of the air.
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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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Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run
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How could such sweet and wholesome hours be reckoned, but in herbs and flowers?
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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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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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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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So much one man can do that does both act and know.
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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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