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The Cross of Snow
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.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
![[THE RINGÈD MOON SITS EERILY] - WILLIAM FAULKNER](/content/upload/posts/the-little-peach-20241225104916.png?width=200&height=150&mode=crop&scale=both&meta=square)
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