Enfold

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.

Prais’d be the fathomless universe, / For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious, / And for love, sweet love—but praise! praise! praise! / For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding death.