′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 Farmer′s doors –
For whose reluctant Crumb –
We stipulate – till pitying Snows
Persuade our Feathers Home