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Alfred Lord Tennyson - In Memoriam A. H. H. Obiit MDCCCXXXIII
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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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