TuesdayJun 30, 2026
Quotes: 53419 Authors: 9969
Ye country comets, that portend No war, nor prince's funeral, Shining unto no higher end Than to presage the grasses fall....
What wond'rous 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, Insnar'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 glade ... Such was that happy garden-state, ...
I have a garden of my own, But so with roses overgrown, And lilies, that you would it guess to be a little wilderness.
The world in all doth but two nations bear— The good, the bad; and these mixed everywhere.
As lines, so loves oblique, may well Themselves in every angle greet; But ours, so truly parallel, Though infinite, can never meet.
My love is of a birth as rare As 'tis for object strange and high It was begotten by despair Upon impossibility.
Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide.
But at my back I always hear Times winged Chariot hurrying near.
Earth cannot shew so brave a sight As when a single soul does fence The batteries of alluring sense, And heaven views it with delight.
Had we but world enough, and time, This coyness, Lady, were no crime.
Engines more keen than ever yet Adorned Tyrants Cabinet; Of which the most tormenting are Black Eyes, red lips and curled hair.
But all resistance against her is vain Who has the advantage both of Eyes and Voice. And all my forces needs must be undone, She having gained both the Wind and Sun.
My Love is of a birth as rare As 'tis for object strange and high: It was begotten by despair Upon Impossibility.
The world in all does but two nations bear, The good, the bad, and these mixed everywhere.
My vegetable love should grow, Vaster than empires, and more slow.
The Grave's a fine and private place But none I think do there embrace.
But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near.
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