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Songs
of the Common Day, and Ave!
An
Ode for the Shelley Centenary
by
Charles G.D. Roberts
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THE
POTATO HARVEST
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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;
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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 |
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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. |
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