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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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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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My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow.
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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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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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Among the blind the one-eyed blinkard reigns
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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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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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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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But Fate does iron wedges drive, And always crowds itself betwixt.
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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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Had we but world enough, and time, this coyness, lady, were no crime.
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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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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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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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How could such sweet and wholesome hours be reckoned, but in herbs and flowers?
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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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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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Art indeed is long, but life is short.
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