Broad shadows fall. On all the mountain side
 The scythe-swept fields are silent. Slowly home
 By the long beach the high-piled hay-carts come,
 Splashing the pale salt shallows. Over wide
 Fawn-coloured wastes of mud the slipping tide,
 Round the dun rocks and wattled fisheries,
 Creeps murmuring in. And now by twos and threes, 
 O'er the slow spreading pools with clamorous chide, 
 Belated crows from strip to strip take flight. 
 Soon will the first star shine; yet ere the night 
 Reach onward to the pale-green distances, 
 The sun's last shaft beyond the gray sea-floor 
 Still dreams upon the Kamouraska shore, 
 And the long line of golden villages.