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?

 

5„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 -

10    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;

15    Or crush her, like a vice of blood,

Upon the threshold of the mind?