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1 76 POEMS.
XXXVIII. DEAD.
��'"PHERE '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 !
�� �
