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 changingscenes 
 

 And seasons, changeless since the day she died.