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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
Dickinson suggests we can try to challenge our fate and run away, but in the end, we will return. It is in the birds’ nature to fly home after winter is over, as it is in ours to deal with our difficulties.
Tis not that Dying hurts us so