I'm sorry for the Dead—Today

529 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"—