Classic Poem

The fifth from the north wall;
Row innermost; and the pall
Plain black — all black — except
The cross on which she wept,
Ere she lay down and slept.

This one is hers, and this —
The marble next it — his.
So lie in brave accord
The lady and her lord,
Her cross and his red sword.

And, now, what seekst thou here;
Having nor care nor fear
To vex with thy hot tread
These halls of the long dead, —
To flash the torch's light
Upon their utter night? —
What word hast thou to thrust
Into her ear of dust?

Spake then the haggard priest:
" In lands of the far East
I dreamed of finding rest —
What time my lips had prest
The cross on this dead breast.

" And if my sin be shriven,
And mercy live in heaven,
Surely this hour, and here,
My long woe's end is near —
Is near — and I am brought
To peace, and painless thought
Of her who lies at rest,
This cross upon her breast;

" Whose passionate heart is cold
Beneath this cross of gold;
Who lieth, still and mute,
In sleep so absolute.
Yea, by this precious sign
Shall sleep most sweet be mine;
And I, at last, am blest,
Knowing she went to rest
This cross upon her breast. "