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Poemsby Emily Dickinson

XXXVII
XXXIX

Dead

There's something quieter than sleep
  Within this inner room!
It wears a sprig upon its breast,
  And will not tell its name.
Some touch it and some kiss it,
  Some chafe its idle hand;
It has a simple gravity
  I do not understand!
While simple-hearted neighbors
  Chat of the 'early dead,'
We, prone to periphrasis,
  Remark that birds have fled!

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