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Poem by 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.



John McCrae


John McCrae's other poems:
  1. Equality
  2. Eventide
  3. The Anxious Dead
  4. The Captain
  5. The Dying of Pere Pierre


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