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

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Had we but world enough, and time, this coyness, lady, were no crime.
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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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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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Annihilating all that's made, To a green thought in a green shade.
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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.
Andrew Marvell
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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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Had it lived long, is would have been Lilies without, roses within.
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And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept their time.
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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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Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run
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And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity.
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The world in all doth but two nations bear- The good, the bad and these mixed everywhere.
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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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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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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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What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head.
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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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Self-preservation, nature's first great law, all the creatures, except man, doth awe.
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Art indeed is long, but life is short.
Andrew Marvell