Explore "Dead" by Emily Dickinson on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
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!