In the long， sleepless¹ 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 repose²； 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.