Andrew Marvell (1621 – 1678)
English metaphysical poet, and the son of an Anglican clergyman.
Orange bright,
Like golden lamps in a green light.
Love's whole world on us doth wheel.
In busy companies of men.
While thus he threw his Elbow round,
Depopulating all the Ground,
And, with his whistling Sythe, does cut
Each stroke between the Earth and Root,
The edged Stele by careless chance
Did into his own Ankle glance;
And there among the Grass fell down,
by his own Sythe, the Mower mown.
And all the way, to guide their chime,
With falling oars they kept the time.
How should I avoid to be her slave,
Whose subtle art invisibly can wreath
My fetters of the very air I breath?
Where the remote Bermudas ride,
In th' ocean's bosom unespied.
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
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 shade.
But bowed his comely head
Down as upon a bed.
So much one man can do,
That does both act and know.
What wondrous life in 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.