Poemsby Emily Dickinson

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!