Dead. By Emily Elizabeth 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!