Lord Alfred Tennyson

In Memoriam III: O Sorrow, cruel fellowship

In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII —III

 
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, standsi
        With all the music in her tone,
        A hollow echo of my own, i
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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