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

I'm sorry for the Dead -- Today --
It's such congenial Way[^a1]times
Old Neighbors have at fences --
It's time o' year for Hay.

[^a1: Way | Way]

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 the Sound[^a2]noise of Fields --
The Busy Carts -- the fragrant Cocks --
The Mower's Metre -- Steals

[^a2: Sound | Sound]

A Trouble lest they're homesick --
Those Farmers -- and their Wives --
Put quiet --[^a3]Set separate from the Farming --
And all the Neighbor's lives --

[^a3: Put quiet -- | Put quiet --]

A Wonder if the Sepulchre
Dont feel a lonesome way --
When Men -- and Boys -- and Larks --[^a4]Carts -- and June,
Go down the Fields to "Hay" --

[^a4: Larks -- | Larks --]