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.