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, standsWith all her 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?