Page:Emily Dickinson Poems - third series (1896).djvu/190

 1 76 POEMS.

XXXVIII. DEAD.

��'"PHERE '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 !

�� �