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" --