In the long, sleepless watches
of the night,
A gentle face -
the face of one long dead--
Looks at me from
the wall, where round its head
The night-lamp
casts a halo of pale light.
Here in this room she died; and soul more
white
Never through
martyrdom of fire was led
To its repose; nor
can in books be read
The legend of a
life more benedight.
There is a mountain in the distant West
That, sun-defying, in its deep
ravines
Displays a cross of snow upon
its side.
Such is the cross I wear upon my breast
These eighteen years, through
all the changing scenes
And seasons, changeless since
the day she died.
