The Potato Harvest

A high bare field, brown from the plough, and borne Aslant from sunset; amber wastes of sky Washing the ridge; a clamour of crows that fly In from the wide flats where the spent tides mourn To yon their rocking roosts in pines wind-torn; A line of grey snake-fence, that zigzags by A pond and cattle; from the homestead nigh The long deep summonings of the supper horn. Black on the ridge, against that lonely flush, A cart, and stoop-necked oxen; ranged beside Some barrels; and the day-worn harvest-folk, Here emptying their baskets, jar the hush With hollow thunders. Down the dusk hillside Lumbers the wain; and day fades out like smoke.