Quote

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.

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
Cannot
Thus
Sweetness
Stills
Sun
Pleasures
Tears
Gates
Still
Strength
Rough
Make
Stand
Iron
Life
Pleasure
Roll
Though
Ball
Strife
Running
Balls
Tear

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Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide.
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So much one man can do that does both act and know.
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How fit he is to sway That can so well obey.
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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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But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near.
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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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This indigested vomit of the Sea,Fell to the Dutch by Just Propriety.
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Annihilating all that's made, To a green thought in a green shade.
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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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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 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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My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow.
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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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Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run
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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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Self-preservation, nature's first great law, all the creatures, except man, doth awe.
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And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept their time.
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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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Among the blind the one-eyed blinkard reigns
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