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.