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"—SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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