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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"?