'Tis not that Dying hurts us so —

←All the letters I can write (334)

'Tis not that Dying hurts us so — by Emily Dickinson 335

(336) The face I carry with me — last —→

'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.

Poetry by Emily Dickinson (edit list):
By letter of the alphabet:	A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I, J, K, L, M, N, O, P, Q, R, S, T, U, V, W, Y.
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This work published before January 1, 1923 is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.