A high bare field, brown from the plough, and borne <br />Aslant from sunset; amber wastes of sky <br />Washing the ridge; a clamour of crows that fly <br />In from the wide flats where the spent tides mourn <br />To yon their rocking roosts in pines wind-torn; <br />A line of grey snake-fence, that zigzags by <br />A pond and cattle; from the homestead nigh <br />The long deep summonings of the supper horn. <br /> <br />Black on the ridge, against that lonely flush, <br />A cart, and stoop-necked oxen; ranged beside <br />Some barrels; and the day-worn harvest-folk, <br />Here emptying their baskets, jar the hush <br />With hollow thunders. Down the dusk hillside <br />Lumbers the wain; and day fades out like smoke.<br /><br />Sir Charles GD Roberts<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-potato-harvest-2/
