In Memoriam A. H. H. Obiit MDCCCXXXIII: 3. O Sorrow, Cruel

O Sorrow, cruel fellowship,
       O Priestess in the vaults of Death,
       O sweet and bitter in a breath,
   What whispers from thy lying lip?
   “The stars,” she whispers, “blindly run;
       A web is wov’n across the sky;
       From out waste places comes a cry,
   And murmurs from the dying sun:
   ”And all the phantom, Nature, stands—
      With all the music in her tone,
      A hollow echo of my own,—
  A hollow form with empty hands."
  And shall I take a thing so blind,
      Embrace her as my natural good;
      Or crush her, like a vice of blood,
  Upon the threshold of the mind?
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