Yes, long shadows go out br from the bales; and yes, the soul br must part from the body: br what else could it do? br br The men sprawl near the baler, br too tired to leave the field. br They talk and smoke, br and the tips of their cigarettes br blaze like small roses br in the night air. (It arrived br and settled among them br before they were aware.) br br The moon comes br to count the bales, br and the dispossessed-- br Whip-poor-will, Whip-poor-will br --sings from the dusty stubble. br br These things happen. . .the soul's bliss br and suffering are bound together br like the grasses. . . br br The last, sweet exhalations br of timothy and vetch br go out with the song of the bird; br the ravaged field br grows wet with dew.