Canto III

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?