In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII: 3

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?