Alfred Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)

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 woven 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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