| How vainly men themselves amaze |
| To win the palm, the oak, or bays, |
| And their incessant labours see |
| Crown’d from some single herb or tree, |
| Whose short and narrow-vergéd shade |
| Does prudently their toils upbraid; |
| While all the flowers and trees do
close |
To weave the garlands of Repose.
|
| Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, |
| And Innocence thy sister dear? |
| Mistaken long, I sought you then |
| In busy companies of men: |
| Your sacred plants, if here below, |
| Only among the plants will grow: |
| Society is all but rude |
To this delicious solitude.
|
| No white nor red was ever seen |
| So amorous 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 her exceed! |
| Fair trees! Where’er your barks I
wound, |
No name shall but your own be found.
|
| When we have run our passion’s heat |
| Love hither makes his best retreat: |
| The gods, who mortal beauty chase, |
| Still in a tree did end their race: |
| Apollo hunted Daphne so |
| Only that she might laurel grow: |
| And Pan did after Syrinx speed |
Not as a nymph, but for a reed.
|
| 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.
|
| 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.
|
| Here at the fountain’s sliding foot |
| Or at some fruit-tree’s mossy root, |
| Casting the body’s vest aside |
| My soul into the boughs does glide; |
| There, like a bird, it sits and sings, |
| Then whets and claps its silver wings, |
| And, till prepared for longer flight, |
Waves in its plumes the various light.
|
| Such was that happy Garden-state |
| While man there walk’d without a mate: |
| After a place so pure and sweet, |
| What other help could yet be meet! |
| But ’twas beyond a mortal’s share |
| To wander solitary there: |
| Two paradises ’twere in one, |
To live in Paradise alone.
|
| How well the skilful gardener drew |
| Of flowers and herbs this dial new! |
| Where, from above, the milder sun |
| Does through a fragrant zodiac run: |
| And, as it works, th’industrious bee |
| Computes its time as well as we. |
| How could such sweet and wholesome
hours |
Be reckon’d, but with herbs and
flowers!
|
| Andrew
Marvell |
Classic Poems |
| |
|
[ An Horation Ode ] [ Song of the Emigrants in Bermuda ] [ Thoughts in a Garden ] [ To His Coy Mistress ] |
