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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
Birds migrate to the South for the winter. They are able to avoid the cold and bitter weather, unlike humans who must face their sufferings head on. 

Tis not that Dying hurts us so