'Tis not that Dying hurts us so

'Tis not that Dying hurts us so --

'Tis Living -- hurts us more --

But Dying -- is a different way --

A Kind behind the Door --

The Southern Custom -- of the Bird --

That ere the Frosts are due --

Accepts a better Latitude --

We -- are the Birds -- that stay.

The Shrivers round Farmers' doors --

For whose reluctant Crumb --

We stipulate -- till pitying Snows

Persuade our Feathers Home.