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.
John McCrae’s other poems:
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