Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916.
The Night ComethJohn McCrae (18721918)
C
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.
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.