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” —

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