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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!
I would not weep, if I were they–
How rude in one to sob!
Might scare the quiet fairy
Back to her native wood!
While simple-hearted neighbors
Chat of the “Early dead”–
We–prone to periphrasis,
Remark that Birds have fled!
~~Emily Dickinson, c. early 1859
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