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.
Andrew
Marvel
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