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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.


Magnanimous Despair alone

Could show me so divine a thing

Where feeble Hope could ne’er have flown,

But vainly flapp’d its tinsel wing.


And yet I quickly might arrive

Where my extended soul is fixt,

But Fate does iron wedges drive,

And always crowds itself betwixt.


For Fate with jealous eye does see

Two perfect loves, nor lets them close;

Their union would her ruin be,

And her tyrannic pow’r depose.


And therefore her decrees of steel

Us as the distant poles have plac’d,

(Though love’s whole world on us doth wheel)

Not by themselves to be embrac’d;


Unless the giddy heaven fall,

And earth some new convulsion tear;

And, us to join, the world should all

Be cramp’d into a planisphere.


As lines, so loves oblique may well

Themselves in every angle greet;

But ours so truly parallel,

Though infinite, can never meet.


Therefore the love which us doth bind,

But Fate so enviously debars,

Is the conjunction of the mind,

And opposition of the stars.


  • Love
  • Relationships

Poet Bio

Andrew Marvell
Andrew Marvell's wit and humor make this English metaphysical poet’s work memorable. He also wrote in the pastoral style of the classical Roman authors. Marvell was a talented statesman and worked as an assistant to John Milton when Milton was Oliver Cromwell’s Latin secretary for foreign affairs.

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