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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. . . .

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
Unto
Grass
Shining
Presage
Higher
Grasses
War
Comets
Fall
Lawns
Ends
Prince
Country
Funeral

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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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So much one man can do that does both act and know.
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This indigested vomit of the Sea,Fell to the Dutch by Just Propriety.
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What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head.
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Had it lived long, is would have been Lilies without, roses within.
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Among the blind the one-eyed blinkard reigns
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My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow.
Andrew Marvell
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But Fate does iron wedges drive, And always crowds itself betwixt.
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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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Music, the mosaic of the air.
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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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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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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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Had we but world enough, and time, this coyness, lady, were no crime.
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Art indeed is long, but life is short.
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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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But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near.
Andrew Marvell
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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.
Andrew Marvell
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The grave's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace.
Andrew Marvell
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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.
Andrew Marvell