THE CROSSES

The little lonely crosses, the crosses low and white,

They haunt me most in the silver hour

That lies against the night;

Or when the rose-dusk dawn comes in,

With a star for candlelight.

The little lonely crosses in fields so far away,

They cast a shadow on my path —

And, take which road I may,

It follows, follows, follows —

Throughout the livelong day.

O little lonely crosses that gentle hands have made,

You mean to us forevermore

The price that has been paid

For a heritage of Freedom,

And a People unafraid.

So, as a Pilgrim to his shrine, in dreams I rise and go,

To find the poppied place of sleep,

And the crosses row on row;

The crosses carved with names beloved,

The crosses white and low.