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Annihilating all that's made, To a green thought in a green shade.

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
Resemblance
Shade
Green
Tree
Thought
Made
Annihilating

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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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Had it lived long, is would have been Lilies without, roses within.
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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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How could such sweet and wholesome hours be reckoned, but in herbs and flowers?
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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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And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity.
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The grave's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace.
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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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Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run
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What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head.
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Self-preservation, nature's first great law, all the creatures, except man, doth awe.
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Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide.
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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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Music, the mosaic of the air.
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How fit he is to sway That can so well obey.
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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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Gather the flowers, but spare the buds.
Andrew Marvell
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My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow.
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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