O Sorrow, cruel fellowship, br O Priestess in the vaults of Death, br O sweet and bitter in a breath, br What whispers from thy lying lip? br br "The stars," she whispers, "blindly run; br A web is wov'n across the sky; br From out waste places comes a cry, br And murmurs from the dying sun: br br "And all the phantom, Nature, stands-- br With all the music in her tone, br A hollow echo of my own,-- br A hollow form with empty hands.