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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
(1)
Poem topics: home, bird, stay, door, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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'tis Not That Dying Hurts Us So is a poem by Emily Dickinson. This page includes the poem text, poet information, related topics, comments, and similar poems.
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