Hay Now

These things happen. . . the soul's bliss

and suffering are bound together

like the grasses. . .

Twilight After Haying   

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.

by Jane Kenyon