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; 
 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 
 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.