Music, the mosaic of the air
Time's winged chariot hurrying near.
The grave's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace
He hangs in shades the orange bright, / Like golden lamps in a green night.
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.
I would / Love you ten years before the flood, / And you should if you please refuse / Till the conversion of the Jews; / My vegetable love should grow / Vaster than empires and more slow.
Gather the flowers, but spare the buds.
But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near.
Earth cannot show so brave a sight, / As when a single soul does fence / The batteries of alluring sense / And Heaven views it with delight.
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.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun / Stand still, yet we will make him run.
But Fate does iron wedges drive,And always crowds itself betwixt.
What wondrous life in this I leadRipe apples drop about my head
Had we but world enough, and time, This coyness, lady, were no crime.
My vegetable love will growVaster than empires, and more slow.