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?