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.