Dead Emily Dickinson

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!