I brought his sweetheart’s pictured face:
Again that smile, so sad and strange,
“Tell her,” said he, “that Tom has gone
Across the Range.”
The last night lingered on the hill.
“There’s a pass, somewhere,” then he said,
And lip, and eye, and hand were still;
And Tom was dead.
Half-sleeping, by the fire I sit:
I start and wake, it is so strange