Cite
 
by EmilyDickinson
XXXVII
XXXIX

Dead

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!