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”'—

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