I had desired it with an ardour that far exceeded moderation; but now that I had finished, the beauty of the dream vanished.
Victor admits that desire blinded him. The irony is sharp: his dream’s “beauty” evaporates at the moment of triumph. Shelley contrasts fantasy and aftermath to expose self-deception. The regret is immediate and human—who hasn’t mistaken intensity for wisdom? The line becomes a mirror for any pursuit where the prize empties the heart. It warns that the moral cost of a vision often appears only when it’s too late.