"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 Shiverers round Farmers' doors —

For whose reluctant Crumb —

We stipulate — till pitying Snows

Persuade our Feathers Home.

Done