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
Still
Tears
Gates
Make
Strength
Rough
Life
Stand
Iron
Pleasure
Roll
Though
Ball
Strife
Running
Balls
Tear

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But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near.
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And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity.
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This indigested vomit of the Sea,Fell to the Dutch by Just Propriety.
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See how the Orient dew, Shed from the bosom of the morn Into the blowing roses, Yet careless of its mansion new For the clear region where 'twas born Round in its self encloses: And in its little globes extent, Frames as it can its native element.
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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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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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Art indeed is long, but life is short.
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But Fate does iron wedges drive, And always crowds itself betwixt.
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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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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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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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Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run
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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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How fit he is to sway That can so well obey.
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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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Had we but world enough, and time, this coyness, lady, were no crime.
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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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And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept their time.
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