‘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?