POEM
The Mower to the Glow-Worms
Ye living lamps, by whose dear light
The nightingale does sit so late,
And studying all the summer night,
Her matchless songs does meditate;
Ye county comets, that portend
No war nor prince’s funeral,
Shining unto no higher end
Than to presage the grass’s fall;
Ye glow-worms, whose officious flame
To wand’ring mowers shows the way,
That in the night have lost their aim,
And after foolish fires do stray;
Your courteous lights in vain you waste,
Since Juliana here is come,
For she my mind hath so displac’d
That I shall never find my home.
In an era that makes a better claim than most upon the familiar term transitional, . . . MORE »
More Poems by Andrew Marvell
An Horatian Ode upon Cromwell’s Return from Ireland
The Nymph Complaining for the Death of her Fawn
The Picture of Little T. C. in a Prospect of Flowers
A Dialogue between the Soul and the Body
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