The Cross of Snow
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Listen while you read.

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.