To His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell

For Valentine's Day, my favourite love poem, part of which I used in my short WW2 romance, Waiting For Eternity.

Waiting For Eternity is a free read on my Candy / Alexandra Yahoo forum.
http://uk.groups.yahoo.com/group/CandyandAlexandra/

Excerpt

“She's coming over, mate.”

“Oh, bugger. Look, tell her I had to visit a sick relative or something.”

The improbably blond airman reached for his jacket and cap. One arm in, one arm out, he stumbled over his chair and looked around for a fire exit or another door. Anything rather than face the wrath of Jen Saunders, who was advancing on him with a face that said she wasn't about to let him go until she'd had her say.

“Hey, you, don’t you dare leave.” She sidestepped him neatly, blocking his escape. “Wait for me, you said. Don’t move from that spot. Where the hell did you get to last night?”

“I… I… “Mitch backed into the wall, distracted for a moment by a blonde curl that had escaped the confines of her nurse’s cap. It bobbed against her cheek when she moved, lending her an endearing air of vulnerability. Take your cap off, he wanted to say. Let me see you with your hair down. Wisely, he kept his mouth closed. Jen placed a flat palm on his chest and pushed him back, very lightly. Mitch stumbled dramatically into the wall and widened his eyes in mock-fear. A hint of a smile flickered across Jen’s mouth.

And that was it. The moment he fell in love with her. Of course he didn't know it at the time; that's what hindsight's for…

To his Coy Mistress
by 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 winged 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 preserv'd 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 am'rous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chapp'd power.
Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball;
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.