The skies are white with soft moonlight;
In Christian lands the lamps burn bright,
In splendor gleaming from the walls
Of parlors and of festive halls;
Or yet, amid some snow-white choir,
Sweet maidens sing the world's desire,
Till, answering in low refrain,
The people all repeat the strain
Of "peace on earth, to men good-will,"
When sudden all the hall is still.
Then tender music, soft and low,
Heavenward seems to float and flow,
But--mid these glittering lights, O see
The stately form of greenwood tree!
Whose graceful arms are drooping wide
As grieving this fair Christmastide.