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"-