'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.
