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 pain 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.

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