Чарльз Джордж Дуглас Робертс (Charles George Douglas Roberts)

The Potato Harvest

   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.