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!