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In
Divers Tones
by
Charles G.D. Roberts
Edited
by Tracy Ware
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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 clamor 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 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,
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10 |
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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