XXXVIII.

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!