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?

Added: Mar 11 2005 | Viewed: 650 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Alfred Lord Tennyson
Poem: In Memoriam A. H. H. Obiit MDCCCXXXIII: 3. O Sorrow, cruel

Poem of the Day on:
May 29 2008
There are no comments for this poem. Why not be the first one to post something about it?

Are you looking for more information on this poem? Perhaps you are trying to analyze it? The poem, In Memoriam A. H. H. Obiit MDCCCXXXIII: 3. O Sorrow, cruel, has not yet been commented on. You can click here to be the first to post a comment about it. Of course you can also always discuss poems by Alfred Lord Tennyson with others on the Poetry Connection poetry forum!