A frosty Christmas Eve, when the stars were shining,
I traveled for the home, where westward falls the hill.
And for many, many a village, in the darkness of the valley,
distant music reached me, peels of bells were ringing.
Then spread my thoughts to olden times, to that first of Christmases
when shepherds who were watching, heard music in the fields.
And they sat there and they marveled,
and they knew they could not tell
whether it were angels, or the bright stars a singing.
But to me heard a far, it was starry music,
the singing of the angels, the comfort of our Lord.
Words of old that come a traveling, by the riches of the times,
and I softly listened, as I stood upon the hill.
And I softly listened, as I stood upon the hill.
- Robert Bridges