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

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Therefore the love which us doth bind, But fate so enviously debars, Is the conjunction of the mind, And opposition of the stars.
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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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Had we but world enough, and time, This coyness Lady were no crime. We would sit down, and think which way To walk, and pass our long love's day. Thou by the Indian Ganges'side Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the flood.
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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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Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide.
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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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Annihilating all that's made, To a green thought in a green shade.
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Music, the mosaic of the air.
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Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run
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Like the vain curlings of the watery maze, Which in smooth streams a sinking weight does raise, So Man, declining always, disappears In the weak circles of increasing years And his short tumults of themselves compose, While flowing Time above his head does close.
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Among the blind the one-eyed blinkard reigns
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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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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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The grave's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace.
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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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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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