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

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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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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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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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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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And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity.
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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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He nothing common did, or mean, / Upon that memorable scene, / But with his keener eye / The axe's edge did try.
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But Fate does iron wedges drive, And always crowds itself betwixt.
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Music, the mosaic of the air.
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Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run
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Among the blind the one-eyed blinkard reigns
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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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Self-preservation, nature's first great law, all the creatures, except man, doth awe.
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This indigested vomit of the Sea,Fell to the Dutch by Just Propriety.
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How fit he is to sway That can so well obey.
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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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Annihilating all that's made, To a green thought in a green shade.
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Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide.
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How could such sweet and wholesome hours be reckoned, but in herbs and flowers?
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