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 changingscenes 


And seasons, changeless since the day she died. 

Poet: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Poem: The Cross of Snow
Volume: Birds Of Passage

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