XXXVIII. 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!