text,updated_at,metaphor,created_at,context,theme,reviewed_on,dictionary,comments,provenance,id,work_id "Or is it feeble Nature calls me back,
And breaks my spirit into grief again?
Is it a Stygian vapour in my blood,
A cold, slow puddle, creeping through my veins?
Or is it thus with all men?--Thus with all.
What are we? how unequal! now we soar,
And now we sink. To be the same, transcends
Our present prowess. Dearly pays the soul
For lodging ill; too dearly rents her clay
.
Reason, a baffled counsellor, but adds
The blush of weakness to the bane of woe.
The noblest spirit, fighting her hard fate
In this damp, dusky region, charged with storms,
But feebly flutters, yet untaught to fly;
Or, flying, short her flight, and sure her fall.
Our utmost strength, when down, to rise again;
And not to yield, though beaten, all our praise.
(ll. 216-232, pp. 122-3 in CUP edition)",2013-06-10 19:44:05 UTC,"""Dearly pays the soul / For lodging ill; too dearly rents her clay.""",2013-06-10 19:44:05 UTC,Night the Fifth,"",,Inhabitants and Rooms,"",Reading,20485,7407