V.
             
        I sometimes hold it half a sin
            To put in words the grief I feel;
            For words, like Nature, half reveal
        And half conceal the Soul within.

        But, for the unquiet heart and brain,
            A use in measured language lies;
            The sad mechanic exercise,
        Like dull narcotics, numbing pain.

        In words, like weeds, I’ll wrap me o’er,
            Like coarsest clothes against the cold:
            But that large grief which these enfold
        Is given in outline and no more.