III.
 

‘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?