Dead lyrics

by

Emily Dickinson


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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