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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.
Content of A BOOK OF SONNETS: The Cross of Snow [Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's poem collection: Birds of Passage]
Read next: FLIGHT THE FOURTH: Charles Sumner
Read previous: A BOOK OF SONNETS: The Broken Oar
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