I'm sorry for the Dead -- Today --
It's such congenial times
Old Neighbors have at fences --
It's time o' year for Hay.
And Broad -- Sunburned Acquaintance
Discourse between the Toil --
And laugh, a homely species
That makes the Fences smile --
It seems so straight to lie away
From all of the noise of Fields --
The Busy Carts -- the fragrant Cocks --
The Mower's Metre -- Steals --
A Trouble lest they're homesick --
Those Farmers -- and their Wives --
Set separate from the Farming --
And all the Neighbors' lives --
A Wonder if the Sepulchre
Don't feel a lonesome way --
When Men -- and Boys -- and Carts -- and June,
Go down the Fields to "Hay" --