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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