by 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.