The air-like the tingle of water from a mountain-spring in the throat of the worn wayfarer, bringing a sense of the dust of the world flushed away.
Arcady?
Look closely.

Like islands in the shining yellow sea, are houses--sometimes in a clump of trees, sometimes only like bare-backed domesticity or naked industry in the workfield.

Also rising here and there in the expanse, clouds that wind skyward, spreading out in a powdery mist.

They look like the rolling smoke of incense, of sacrifice.
Sacrifice it is.

The vast steam-threshers are mightily devouring what their servants, the monster steam-reapers, have gleaned for them.