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.”
The Cross of Gold
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