MY CROSS.
Reading edition
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.
