'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. A happy lip -- breaks sudden -- It doesn't state you how It contemplated -- smiling -- Just consummated -- now -- But this one, wears its merriment So patient -- like a pain -- Fresh gilded -- to elude the eyes Unqualified, to scan -- You love me -- you are sure -- I shall not fear mistake -- I shall not cheated wake -- Some grinning morn -- To find the Sunrise left -- And Orchards -- unbereft -- And Dollie -- gone! I need not start -- you're sure -- That night will never be -- When frightened -- home to Thee I run -- To find the windows dark -- And no more Dollie -- mark -- Quite none? Be sure you're sure -- you know -- I'll bear it better now -- If you'll just tell me so -- Than when -- a little dull Balm grown -- Over this pain of mine -- You sting -- again!