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And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept their time.

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
Rowing
Guide
Guides
Falling
Kept
Oars
Fall
Chime
Way
Oar
Time
Chimes

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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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Annihilating all that's made, To a green thought in a green shade.
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Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run
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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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So much one man can do that does both act and know.
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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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As lines, so loves oblique, may well Themselves in every angle greet But ours, so truly parallel, Though infinite, can never meet.
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My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow.
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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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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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Among the blind the one-eyed blinkard reigns
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Music, the mosaic of the air.
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Twas beyond a mortal's share To wander solitary there: Two paradises 'twere in one To live in paradise alone.
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How vainly men themselves amaze To win the palm, the oak, or bays And their uncessant labours see Crown'd from some single herb or tree. Whose short and narrow verged shade Does prudently their toils upbraid While all flow'rs and all trees do close To weave the garlands of repose.
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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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Self-preservation, nature's first great law, all the creatures, except man, doth awe.
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Art indeed is long, but life is short.
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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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