I'm sorry for the Dead -- Today --

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" --