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Emily Dickinson's Collected Poems

Part Four: Time and Eternity 120. There's something quieter than sleep

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!