Explore "The Crosses" by Virna Sheard on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
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.