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!

 

 

Done