John McCrae

(30 November 1872 – 28 January 1918 / Guelph, Ontario)

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.

Submitted: Tuesday, December 31, 2002

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Read poems about / on: sad, work, children, night, wind, time, tree, child

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