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.
More verses by Alfred Lord Tennyson
- In Memoriam A. H. H.: 45. The Baby New To Earth And Sky
- In Memoriam A. H. H.: 22. The Path By Which We Twain Did Go
- Marriage Morning
- You Ask Me, Why, Tho' Ill At Ease
- In Memoriam A. H. H.: 54. Oh, Yet We Trust That Somehow Goo