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Alfred Lord Tennyson - In Memoriam 3: O Sorrow, Cruel FellowshipAlfred Lord Tennyson - In Memoriam 3: O Sorrow, Cruel Fellowship
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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?
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