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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
Doe
Body
Soul
Vest
Boughs
Glide
Vests
Casting
Aside

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Art indeed is long, but life is short.
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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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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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Had it lived long, is would have been Lilies without, roses within.
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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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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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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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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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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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What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head.
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But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near.
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This indigested vomit of the Sea,Fell to the Dutch by Just Propriety.
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Music, the mosaic of the air.
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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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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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My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow.
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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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The world in all doth but two nations bear- The good, the bad and these mixed everywhere.
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