Peace upon Earth, Goodwill! I sing to the strings
Of lutes celestial Nay, if these things
Too blessed to believe have seemed, or seem,
Not ours the fault, dear Angels ! Prove the dream

Till times to be, then — oh, you placid sheep !
Ah, thrice-blest shepherds ! suffer that we creep

Waking and true ! sing once again, and make
Moonlight and starlight sweet for Earth's sad sake !
Or, if Heaven bids ye lock in silence still
Conquest of Peace, and coming of Goodwill,

Till times to be, then — oh, you placid sheep !
Ah, thrice-blest shepherds ! suffer that we creep
Back through the tangled thicket of the years
To graze in your fair flock, to strain our ears
With listening herdsmen, if, perchance, one note
Of such high singing in the fine air float;