In the Morning by Willis Boyd Allen - HTML preview

MY CROSS.

Only a tiny cross;

She plucked it from a mountain fir,

And wreathing it in soft, gray moss,

Gave it in memory of her,—

Yet—’tis a cross!

Only a soft, gray cross;

But, half-concealed, full many a thorn

Lay waiting there, beneath the moss,

To pierce the bosom where ’tis worn,

This wee, sweet cross.

Only a thorny cross,

Unconscious of the pain it gives;

Lifeless the fir, faded the moss,

Yet, while the hand that plucked them lives,

It is my cross.