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?