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