The Crosses

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.