• sammack1126

Canto 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?


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

© 2018 by Samantha Mack