529 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"?