A Dialogue Between the Soul and Body
by Andrew Marvell
O who shall, from this dungeon, raise
A soul enslav’d so many ways?
With bolts of bones, that fetter’d stands
In feet, and manacled in hands;
Bermudas
by Andrew Marvell
Where the remote Bermudas ride
In th’ ocean’s bosom unespy’d,
From a small boat, that row’d along,
The list’ning winds receiv’d this song.
Eyes and Tears
by Andrew Marvell
How wisely Nature did decree,
With the same Eyes to weep and see!
That, having view’d the object vain,
They might be ready to complain.
On a Drop of Dew
by Andrew Marvell
See how the orient dew,
Shed from the bosom of the morn
Into the blowing roses,
Yet careless of its mansion new,
The Coronet
by Andrew Marvell
When for the thorns with which I long, too long,
With many a piercing wound,
My Saviour’s head have crowned,
I seek with garlands to redress that wrong:
The Definition of Love
by Andrew Marvell
My love is of a birth as rare
As ’tis for object strange and high;
It was begotten by Despair
Upon Impossibility.
The Fair Singer
by Andrew Marvell
To make a final conquest of all me,
Love did compose so sweet an enemy,
In whom both beauties to my death agree,
Joining themselves in fatal harmony;
The Gallery
by Andrew Marvell
Clora, come view my soul, and tell
Whether I have contrived it well.
Now all its several lodgings lie
Composed into one gallery;
The Garden
by Andrew Marvell
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,
The Nymph Complaining For The Death Of Her Faun
by Andrew Marvell
The wanton troopers riding by
Have shot my fawn, and it will die.
Ungentle men! they cannot thrive
To kill thee. Thou ne’er didst alive
Explore more poems from Andrew Marvell
The Picture of Little T.C. In A Prospect of Flowers
by Andrew Marvell
See with what simplicity
This nymph begins her golden days!
In the green grass she loves to lie,
And there with her fair aspect tames
The Unfortunate Lover
by Andrew Marvell
Alas, how pleasant are their days
With whom the infant Love yet plays!
Sorted by pairs, they still are seen
By fountains cool, and shadows green.
To His Coy Mistress
by Andrew Marvell
Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime
We would sit down and think which way
To walk and pass our long love's day.
Young Love
by Andrew Marvell
Come, little infant, love me now,
While thine unsuspected years
Clear thine agèd father’s brow
From cold jealousy and fears.
