529 <br /> <br />I'm sorry for the Dead—Today— <br />It's such congenial times <br />Old Neighbors have at fences— <br />It's time o' year for Hay. <br /> <br />And Broad—Sunburned Acquaintance <br />Discourse between the Toil— <br />And laugh, a homely species <br />That makes the Fences smile— <br /> <br />It seems so straight to lie away <br />From all of the noise of Fields— <br />The Busy Carts—the fragrant Cocks— <br />The Mower's Metre—Steals— <br /> <br />A Trouble lest they're homesick— <br />Those Farmers—and their Wives— <br />Set separate from the Farming— <br />And all the Neighbors' lives— <br /> <br />A Wonder if the Sepulchre <br />Don't feel a lonesome way— <br />When Men—and Boys—and Carts—and June, <br />Go down the Fields to "Hay"—<br /><br />Emily Dickinson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/i-m-sorry-for-the-dead-today/
