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John McCrae (Джон Маккрей)


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:
  1. The Harvest of the Sea
  2. Equality
  3. In Due Season
  4. Unsolved
  5. Disarmament


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