In Memoriam A.H.H.: 3. O Sorrow, cruel fellowship
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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