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

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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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Art indeed is long, but life is short.
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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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Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide.
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And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity.
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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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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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Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run
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My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow.
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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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Self-preservation, nature's first great law, all the creatures, except man, doth awe.
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Gather the flowers, but spare the buds.
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How fit he is to sway That can so well obey.
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So much one man can do that does both act and know.
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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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Among the blind the one-eyed blinkard reigns
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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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But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near.
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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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How could such sweet and wholesome hours be reckoned, but in herbs and flowers?
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