‘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.
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Upon the polar hem—Went wandering down the LatitudesUntil it puzzled cameTo continents of summer—To firmaments of sun—To strange, bright crowds of flowers—And birds, of foreign tongue!I say, As if this little flowerTo Eden, wandered in—What then? Why nothing,Only, your inference therefrom!
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