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 /> 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 George Douglas Roberts<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-potato-harvest/
