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 flyIn from the wide flats where the spent tides mournTo yon their rocking roosts in pines wind-torn; A line of grey snake-fence, that zigzags by A pond and cattle; from the homestead nighThe 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.
