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Poem	'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.
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