The Garden
How
vainly
men
themselves
amaze
To
win
the
Palm,
the
Oke,
or
Bayes;
And
their
uncessant
Labours
see
Crown'd
from
some
single
Herb
or
Tree,
Whose
short
and
narrow
verged
Shade
Does
prudently
their
Toyles
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
busie
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!
where
s'eer
your
barkes
I
wound,
No
Name
shall
but
your
own
be
found.
When
we
have
run
our
Passions
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
Nectaren,
and
curious
Peach,
Into
my
hands
themselves
do
reach;
Stumbling
on
Melons,
as
I
pass,
Insnar'd
with
Flow'rs,
I
fall
on
Grass.
Mean
while
the
Mind,
from
pleasure
less,
Withdraws
into
its
happiness:
The
Mind,
that
Ocean
where
each
kind
Does
streight
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
Fountains
sliding
foot,
Or
at
some
Fruit-trees
mossy
root,
Casting
the
Bodies
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
skilful
Gardner
drew
Of
flow'rs
and
herbes
this
Dial
new;
Where
from
above
the
milder
Sun
Does
through
a
fragrant
Zodiack
run;
And,
as
it
works,
th'
industrious
Bee
Computes
its
time
as
well
as
we.
70
How
could
such
sweet
and
wholsome
Hours
Be
reckon'd
but
with
herbs
and
flow'rs!
Andrew Marvell
Andrew Marvell, (born March 31, 1621, Winestead, Yorkshire, England—died August 18, 1678, London), English poet whose political reputation overshadowed that of his poetry until the 20th century. He is now considered to be one of the best Metaphysical poets. Marvell spent most of the 1650s working as a tutor, first for Mary Fairfax, daughter of a retired Cromwellian general, then for one of Oliver Cromwell’s wards. Scholars believe that Marvell’s greatest lyrics were written during this time. In 1657, due to John Milton’s efforts on his behalf, Marvell was appointed Milton’s Latin secretary, a post Marvell held until his election to Parliament in 1660.