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.