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In Memoriam A.H.H.

         
            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?
       


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