V I sometimes hold it half a sin
And half conceal the Soul within. But, for the unquiet heart and brain,
Like dull narcotics, numbing pain. In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er,
Is given in outline and no more.
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XXVII I envy not in any moods
That never knew the summer woods: I envy not the beast that takes
To whom a conscience never wakes; Nor, what may count itself as blest,
Nor any want-begotten rest. I hold it true, whate'er befall;
Than never to have loved at all.
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