Poemattic: Poetry and Art for the Soul

Here is a poem I love by Emily Dickinson.

It is not 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 soon as frost are due

Adopts a better latitude.

We are the birds that stay,

The shiverers round farmers’ doors,

For whose reluctant crumb

We stipulate, till pitying snows

Persuade our feathers home.