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

Comments (14)

Wow, such a passionate poem I ever read...β€οΈπŸ‘πŸ»πŸ‘πŸ»πŸ‘πŸ»πŸ‘πŸ»πŸ‘πŸ»10++++++
You have a noble poetic heart-beautiful poem about poetry and love.
A poem to think and a poem to understand its way of life..... its contents reach.. it is ancient telepathy and that still works toady and tranlates lovely lifein to words.. very nice thoughts
dripping with love good write -10 anjali
Your poems are in hearts of readers and into me I can feel it. Thanks for such submissive poem, an attribute of a True Poet Ten++ Ms. Nivedita UK Invite you to read and comment: LINGERIE- IG [new post.] Enigmatic Navel or other poems Niv
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