Emily Dickinson

Tis Not That Dying Hurts Us So

poem 335

‘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.

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