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?





Lord Alfred Tennyson

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