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?