We rest—a dream has power to poison sleep; We rise—one wandering thought pollutes the day; We feel, conceive or reason, laugh or weep, Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away:—
It is the same!—For, be it joy or sorrow, The path of its departure still is free
We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon; How restlessly they speed, and gleam, and quiver, Streaking the darkness radiantly!—yet soon Night closes round, and they are lost for ever:
Or like forgotten lyres, whose dissonant strings Give various response to each varying blast, To whose frail frame no second motion brings One mood or modulation like the last.
We rest.—A dream has power to poison sleep; We rise.—One wandering thought pollutes the day; We feel, conceive or reason, laugh or weep; Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away:
It is the same!—For, be it joy or sorrow, The path of its departure still is free: Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow; Nought may endure but Mutability.
This is the plot of Frankenstein, hands down. It struck me there and it strikes me on its own — how wonderful it is that we think and how torturous it is that we ponder.
We will be always changing, there's no escaping. Whether we do it positively or negatively, that's the only think that's up to us. *Third stanza trips me up and could've been worded out better to help with the flow of the poem, tho.
THE flower that smiles to–day To–morrow dies; All that we wish to stay Tempts and then flies. What is this world's delight? Lightning that mocks the night, Brief even as bright.
Virtue, how frail it is! friendship how rare! Love, how it sells poor bliss For proud despair! But we, though soon they fall, Survive their joy, and all Which ours we call