It 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.