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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.
Tis Not That Dying Hurts Us So
Emily Dickinson
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Poem topics: home, bird, stay, door, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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