I wept like a child. “Dear mountains! my own beautiful lake! how do you welcome your wanderer? Your summits are clear; the sky and lake are blue and placid. Is this to prognosticate peace, or to mock at my unhappiness?”

– Mary Shelley

Frankenstein, Chapter 7. Mourning the death of his brother, for which he feels responsible, it seems wrong to Victor that the natural world should appear so peaceful.