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Twas beyond a mortal's share To wander solitary there: Two paradises 'twere in one To live in paradise alone.

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
Mortals
Wander
Paradise
Beyond
Paradises
Share
Twere
Alone
Twas
Two
Mortal
Live
Solitary

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Gather the flowers, but spare the buds.
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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. . . .
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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. We would sit down, and think which way To walk, and pass our long love's day. Thou by the Indian Ganges'side Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the flood.
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This indigested vomit of the Sea,Fell to the Dutch by Just Propriety.
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What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head.
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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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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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So much one man can do that does both act and know.
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And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept their time.
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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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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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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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Had we but world enough, and time, this coyness, lady, were no crime.
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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.
Andrew Marvell
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Among the blind the one-eyed blinkard reigns
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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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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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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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