In Memoriam 3: O Sorrow, cruel fellowship

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."