Twilight: After Haying

　　by Jane Kenyon

　　 Yes， long shadows go out

　　 from the bales； and yes， the soul

　　 must part from the body：

　　 what else could it do？

　　 The men sprawl near the baler，

　　 too tired to leave the field.

　　 They talk and smoke，

　　 and the tips of their cigarettes

　　 blaze like small roses

　　 in the night air. （It arrived

　　 and settled among them

　　 before they were aware.）

　　 The moon comes

　　 to count the bales，

　　 and the dispossessed

　　 Whip-poor-will， Whip-poor-will

　　 sings from the dusty stubble.

　　 These things happen. . .the soul's bliss

　　 and suffering are bound together

　　 like the grasses. . .

　　 The last， sweet exhalations

　　 of timothy and vetch

　　 go out with the song of the bird；

　　 the ravaged field

　　 grows wet with dew.

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