In Memoriam A. H. H.: 5.

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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.

© Alfred Tennyson