In Flanders Fields and Other Poems — The Night Cometh

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.

In Due Season