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.