Mutation

They talk of short-lived pleasure–be it so–

Pain dies as quickly: stern, hard-featured pain

Expires, and lets her weary prisoner go.

The fiercest agonies have shortest reign;

And after dreams of horror, comes again

The welcome morning with its rays of peace.

Oblivion, softly wiping out the stain,

Makes the strong secret pangs of shame to cease:

Remorse is virtue’s root; its fair increase

Are fruits of innocence and blessedness:

Thus joy, o’erborne and bound, doth still release

His young limbs from the chains that round him press.

Weep not that the world changes–did it keep

A stable, changeless state, ’twere cause indeed to weep.