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?
-Alfred Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam A. H. H., Canto III