John McCrae (1872–1918)

COMETH the night. The wind falls low,

The trees swing slowly to and fro:

Around the church the headstones grey

Cluster, like children stray’d 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.