Andrew Marvell
Andrew Marvell
Andrew Marvellwas an English metaphysical poet, satirist and politician who sat in the House of Commons at various times between 1659 and 1678. During the Commonwealth period he was a colleague and friend of John Milton. His poems range from the love-song "To His Coy Mistress", to evocations of an aristocratic country house and garden in "Upon Appleton House" and "The Garden", the political address "An Horatian Ode upon Cromwell's Return from Ireland", and the later personal and political satires...
NationalityEnglish
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth31 March 1621
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.
The nectarine, and curious peach, / Into my hands themselves do reach; / Stumbling on melons, as I pass, / Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.
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 shade.
The tawny mowers enter next, / Who seem like Israelites to be / Walking on foot through a green sea.
I have a garden of my own,/ But so with roses overgrown,/ And lilies, that you would it guess/ To be a little wilderness.
Had it lived long, is would have been Lilies without, roses within.
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, ...
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.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run
Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide.
Annihilating all that's made, To a green thought in a green shade.
How could such sweet and wholesome hours be reckoned, but in herbs and flowers?
And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept their time.
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.