Thoughts in A Garden
by
Andrew Marvell
(Poem)
Thoughts in A Garden
How
vainly men themselves amaze
To
win the palm, the oak, or bays,
And
their uncessant labours see
Crown’d
from some single herb or tree,
Whose
short and narrow verged shade
Does
prudently their toils upbraid;
While
all flow’rs and all 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
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! wheres’e’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, that 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
wond’rous 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,
Ensnar’d
with flow’rs, 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 combs its silver wings;
And,
till prepar’d 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 skillful gard’ner drew
Of
flow’rs 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 flow’rs!
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