The grave’s a fine and private place,But none, I think, do there embrace.
But at my back I always hear Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near
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.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.
Thus, though we cannot make our sunStand still, yet we will make him run.
My vegetable love will growVaster than empires, and more slow.
To wander solitary there:Two paradises ‘twere in oneTo live in paradise alone.
But Fate does iron wedges drive,And always crowds itself betwixt.
My love is of a birth as rareAs ’tis, for object, strange and high;It was begotten by DespairUpon Impossibility.
He nothing common did or mean Upon that memorable scene.