The speaker feels a pang of pity for the dead on a bright, busy June day. All around her, the living world hums with congenial activity: old neighbors chat over fences, sunburned acquaintances laugh between bouts of work, hay carts rattle, and the mower’s steady metre fills the fields. It’s haymaking time, fragrant and full of homely cheer. The speaker finds it natural—“so straight”—to think of the dead lying still, separated from all that pleasant noise. She gently worries that the farmers and their wives might feel homesick, cut off from the farming life and the neighborly bustle they once belonged to. By the end, there’s a tender, almost whimsical longing: she wonders if the tomb itself feels lonesome when men, boys, carts, and even the month of June go down the fields to hay. The mood isn’t heavy grief—it’s a quiet, bittersweet recognition that the dead miss the simplest, sunlit rituals of life.
I'm sorry for the Dead -- Today -- — Summary
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" --