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Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide.

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
Casting
Aside
Doe
Body
Soul
Vest
Boughs
Glide
Vests

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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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Among the blind the one-eyed blinkard reigns
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Had we but world enough, and time, this coyness, lady, were no crime.
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And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity.
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How fit he is to sway That can so well obey.
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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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This indigested vomit of the Sea,Fell to the Dutch by Just Propriety.
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My love is of a birth as rare As 'tis, for object, strange and high It was begotten by Despair Upon Impossibility.
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But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near.
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What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head.
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My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow.
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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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Annihilating all that's made, To a green thought in a green shade.
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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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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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Music, the mosaic of the air.
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Gather the flowers, but spare the buds.
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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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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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