‘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.