The Cross Of Snow
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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.
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- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow : The Cumberland
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- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow : The Children's Hour
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- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow : St. John's, Cambridge
