But at my back I always hear
Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.

Andrew Marvell

Stichwörter: poetry death



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Ye glow-worms, whose officious flame
To wand’ring mowers shows the way,
That in the night have lost their aim,
And after foolish fires do stray;

Your courteous lights in vain you waste,
Since Juliana here is come,
For she my mind hath so displac’d
That I shall never find my home.

Andrew Marvell

Stichwörter: the-mower-to-the-glow-worms



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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.

Andrew Marvell

Stichwörter: love heartbreak



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But Fate does iron wedges drive,
And always crowds itself betwixt.

Andrew Marvell

Stichwörter: injustice fate unfairness



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The grave's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.

Andrew Marvell

Stichwörter: poetry death



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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.

Andrew Marvell

Stichwörter: metaphysical



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Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
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-chapt power.

Andrew Marvell

Stichwörter: life passion poetry sex pleasure living



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Music, the mosaic of the air

Andrew Marvell


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What wondrous life in this I lead
Ripe apples drop about my head

Andrew Marvell

Stichwörter: joy gardens



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But at my back I always hear
Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found;
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long-preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust;
The grave’s a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.

Andrew Marvell

Stichwörter: life passion poetry time death living



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