⁠She weeds or merely dallies,
A lily plucks with gesture mild
⁠And wanders down the alleys.

A shepherd group in distance dim
⁠Lie stretched upon the heather,
And with a simple evening hymn
⁠Wake the still breeze together.

And from the roomy threshing hall
⁠The hammer strokes ring cheery,
The plane gives forth a crunching drawl,
⁠The rasping saw sounds weary.

The evening star now greets the scene
⁠And smoothly soars above it,
And o'er the cottage stands serene;
⁠He seems in truth to love it.

A vision with such beauty crowned,
⁠Had pious monks observed it.
They straight upon a golden ground
⁠Had painted and preserved it.

The carpenter, the herdsmen there
⁠A pious choral sounding;
The maiden with the lily fair,
⁠And peace the whole surrounding;

The wondrous star that beams on all
⁠From out the fields of heaven—
May it not be that in the stall
⁠The Christ is born this even?