“Some years ago, when the images which this world affords first opened upon me, when I felt the cheering warmth of summer and heard the rustling of the leaves and the warbling of the birds, and these were all to me, I should have wept to die; now it is my only consolation. Polluted by crimes and torn by the bitterest remorse, where can I find rest but in death?”

– Mary Shelley

Frankenstein, Chapter 24. The monster recalls his first experiences of the beauty of the natural world. He is now filled with remorse and a desire to die.