In Divers Tones

by Charles G.D. Roberts

Edited by Tracy Ware




A high bare field, brown from the plough, and borne
   Aslant from sunset; amber wastes of sky
   Washing the ridge; a clamor 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 gray 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.