Tag Archives: andrew marvell

I have Heard the Tick Tock of the Clock

I have heard
The tick tock
Of the clock
And thought
That I ought
To become
A better man,
Ere the clock’s word
Is no longer heard
And the sun
Does, forever set
On my regret.

Marvell was right,
For, oft, at night
I fancy I hear
“Time’s Winged chariot hurrying near”.
The year
Will soon close.
No man knows
How many more he has got,
Therefore heed the tick tock
Of the clock
For it’s word
Will, one day
Pass away.

The reference to “Time’s Winged chariot”, can be found in Andrew Marvell’s “To His Coy Mistress”, http://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/his-coy-mistress/.

To His Coy Mistress By Andrew Marvell

In honour of National Poetry Month I am reproducing below “To His Coy Mistress” by the English poet, 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.

Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side

Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide

Of Humber would complain. 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;

An hundred years should go to praise

Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;

Two hundred to adore each breast,

But thirty thousand to the rest;

An age at least to every part,

And the last age should show your heart.

For, lady, you deserve this state,

Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear

Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near;

And yonder all before us lie

Deserts of vast eternity.

Thy beauty shall no more be found;

Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound

My echoing song; then worms shall try

That long-preserved virginity,

And your quaint honour turn to dust,

And into ashes all my lust;

The grave’s a fine and private place,

But none, I think, do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue

Sits on thy skin like morning dew,

And while thy willing soul transpires

At every pore with instant fires,

Now let us sport us while we may,

And now, like amorous birds of prey,

Rather at once our time devour

Than languish in his slow-chapped power.

Let us roll all our strength and all

Our sweetness up into one ball,

And tear our pleasures with rough strife

Through the iron gates of life:

Thus, though we cannot make our sun

Stand still, yet we will make him run”.