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

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But Fate does iron wedges drive, And always crowds itself betwixt.
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But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near.
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Had we but world enough, and time, this coyness, lady, were no crime.
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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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Music, the mosaic of the air.
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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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Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run
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Gather the flowers, but spare the buds.
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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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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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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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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.
Andrew Marvell
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How fit he is to sway That can so well obey.
Andrew Marvell
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And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity.
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My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow.
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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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And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept their time.
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This indigested vomit of the Sea,Fell to the Dutch by Just Propriety.
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