Under the drifted snows, with weeping and holy rite,
For a little maid's repose let the lonely bed be dight.
Cold is the cradle cover our pitiful hands fold over
The heart that had won repose or ever it knew delight.

High are the heavens and steep to us who would enter in
By the fasts that our faint hearts keep and the thornset crowns we win.
Sweetly the child awaketh, brightly the day-dawn breaketh
On the eyes that fell asleep or ever they looked on sin.