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Ripe Apples drop about my head;
The Luscious Clusters of the Vine
Upon my mouth do crush their Wine;
The Nectararen, and the curious Peach,
Into my hands themselves do reach;
Stumbling upon Melons, as I pass,
Insnar'd with Flow'rs, I fall on Grass
Withdraws into its happines:
the Mind, that Ocean where each kind
Does streight its own resemblance find;
Yet it creates, transcending these,
Far other worlds, and other seas;
Annihilating all that's made
To a green Thought in a green Shade.
Andrew Marvell 'The Garden' (1681)