But there is no such thing—
A vow! as well respect the case that sheathes
The chrysalis, when the live creature stirs!
We make these fetters for ourselves, and then
We grow and burst them. It is clear no man
Can so forecast the changes of his course
That he can promise so I will remain,
Such, and no other. Words like these are straws
The current plays with as it moves along.
DAMIANI.
My brethren, do not listen; he is mad.
CARLOMAN.
No, you are mad; you cannot see that Time
Is God’s own movement, all that He can do
Between the day a man is born and dies.
Listen a little: is there one of you
Who looks upon the sunlight and the buds
That moss the vines in March, and does not feel
Now I am living with these changeful things;
The instant is so golden for us all,
And this is life? Think what the vines would be
If they were glued forever, and one month
Gave them a law—the richness that would cease,
The flower, the shade, the ripening. We are men,
With fourscore years for season, and we alter
So exquisitely often on our way
To harvest and the end. It must be so.
DAMIANI.
Is this what darkness and strict punishment
Have wrought in the corruption of your mind?
CARLOMAN.
I lay as seeds lie in the prison-house,
Dying and living—living evermore,
Pushed by a spark of time to join the hours,
To go along with them.
A MONK.