The Garden by Andrew Marvell
This poem is about how nature and spirituality provide more to us than what human society and being materialistic does. The poet states that once getting to the garden (the quietness of his own mind or perhaps his own family), many "victories" are seen as useless.
"The Garden" serves as a metaphor for life, but while doing so, it gives us a view of how beautiful something as simple as a garden truly is. For whatever reason, even if we have all different types of trees and all the leaves we would ever need, we still want more. There is always something else we set our minds on and have to have. However, it shouldn't be this way. We should see the beauty in the things we already do have.
The Garden How vainly men themselves amaze To win the palm, the oak, or bays, And their incessant labours see Crowned from some single herb or tree, Whose short and narrow-verged shade Does prudently their toils upbraid; While all the flowers and 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! where s'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 wondrous 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, Ensnared 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 prepared for longer flight, Waves in its plumes the various light. Such was that happy garden-state, While man there walked 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 gardener 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 reckoned but with herbs and flow'rs! Published in Elizabethan and Seventeenth-Century Lyrics 1938.
Next: To His Coy Mistress
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