'Tis not that Dying hurts us so

335 '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.