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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.
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- Her Sweet Turn To Leave The Homestead
- Love—is That Later Thing Than Death
- The Rose Did Caper On Her Cheek
- The World&Mdash;Feels Dusty
- Where I Have Lost, I Softer Tread