It <isn’t> ↑ is not ↓ 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 soon as frosts are due –
Adopts a better latitude.
We are the birds that stay
The shiverers round farmers’ doors.
For whose reluctant crumb –
We stipulate – till pitying snows
Persuade our feathers Home.