There were no words. Not even in Shakespeare.

‚Art, science – you seem to have paid a fairly high price for your happiness,‘ said the Savage, when they were alone. ‚Anything else?‘
‚Well, religion, of course,‘ replied the Controller. ‚There used to be something called God – before the Nine Years‘ War. But I was forgetting; you know all about God, I suppose.‘

‚Well …‘ The Savage hesitated. He would have liked to say something about solitude, about night, about the mesa lying pale under the moon, about the precipice, the plunge into shadowy darkness, about death. He would have liked to speak; but there were no words. Not even in Shakespeare.“

[A. Huxley, Brave New World]