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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 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.