529
I'm sorry for the DeadToday
It's such congenial times
Old Neighbors have at fences
It's time o' year for Hay.
And BroadSunburned 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 Cartsthe fragrant Cocks
The Mower's MetreSteals
A Trouble lest they're homesick
Those Farmersand their Wives
Set separate from the Farming
And all the Neighbors' lives
A Wonder if the Sepulchre
Don't feel a lonesome way
When Menand Boysand Cartsand June,
Go down the Fields to "Hay"
