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 changingscenes


And seasons, changeless since the day she died.

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Comments (2)

Death of a near one is always painful. When it relates to the better half the sadness is more and here the poet writes the poem in extreme sadness and it is great.
I love this sad poem, it really reflects the love of the poet for his dead wife, whom he will remember and love forever.