Yes， long shadows go out

    from the bales； and yes， the soul

    must part from the body：

    what else could it do？

    The men sprawl¹ 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 bliss²

    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 ravaged³ field

    grows wet with dew.