Poem by 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.

1. The Autumn Thistles
2. At the Gates of Spring
3. Twilight on Sixth Avenue at Ninth Street
4. Hilltop Song
5. The Frosted Pane

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