'Tis not that Dying hurts us so

'Tis not that Dying hurts us so

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'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 LatitudeWe-
are the Birds-that stay.

The Shrivers round Farmers' doors-
For whose reluctant Crumb-
We stipulate-till pitying Snows
Persuade our Feathers Home.