'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.