The Night Cometh
Cometh the night. The wind falls low,The trees swing slowly to and fro:Around the church the headstones greyCluster, like children strayed awayBut 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.