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.