A high bare field, brown from the plough, and borne br Aslant from sunset; amber wastes of sky br Washing the ridge; a clamour of crows that fly br In from the wide flats where the spent tides mourn br To yon their rocking roosts in pines wind-torn; br A line of grey snake-fence, that zigzags by br A pond and cattle; from the homestead nigh br The long deep summonings of the supper horn. br br Black on the ridge, against that lonely flush, br A cart, and stoop-necked oxen; ranged beside br Some barrels; and the day-worn harvest-folk, br Here emptying their baskets, jar the hush br With hollow thunders. Down the dusk hillside br Lumbers the wain; and day fades out like smoke.