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John McCrae

The Night Cometh

Cometh the night. The wind falls low,
The trees swing slowly to and fro:
    Around the church the headstones grey
    Cluster, like children strayed away
But found again, and folded so.

No chiding look doth she bestow:
If she is glad, they cannot know;
    If ill or well they spend their day,
                    Cometh the night.

Singing or sad, intent they go;
They do not see the shadows grow;
    "There yet is time," they lightly say,
    "Before our work aside we lay";
Their task is but half-done, and lo!
                    Cometh the night.

 
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About the poet
John McCrae
 
By the same poet
In Flanders Fields
The Anxious Dead
The Warrior
Isandlwana
The Unconquered Dead
The Captain
The Song of the Derelict
Quebec
Then and Now
Unsolved
The Hope of My Heart
Penance
Slumber Songs
The Oldest Drama
Recompense
Mine Host
Equality
Anarchy
Disarmament
The Dead Master
The Harvest of the Sea
The Dying of Pere Pierre
Eventide
Upon Watts' Picture "Sic Transit"
A Song of Comfort
The Pilgrims
The Shadow of the Cross
In Due Season
 
Related books
John McCrae at amazon.com


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