Good King Wenceslas looked out, on the Feast of Stephen
When the snow lay round about, deep and crisp and even.
Brightly shone the moon that night, tho the frost was cruel
When a poor man came in sight, gathering winter fuel.
Hither, page, an stand by me, if thou knowest it, telling
Yonder peasant, who is he? Where and what his dwelling?
Sire, he lives a good league hence, underneath the mountain
Right against the forest fence, by St. Agnes fountain.
Bring me flesh and bring me wine, bring me pine logs hither
Thou and I will see him dine, when we bear them thither.
Page and monarch, forth they went, forth they went together
Through the rude winds wild lament and the bitter weather.
Sire, the night is darker now, and the wind blow stronger
Fails my heart, I know not how; I can go no longer.
Mark my footsteps, my good page. Tread now in them boldly
Thou shalt find the winters rage, freeze thy blood less coldly.
In his masters' steps he trod, where the snow lay dinted
Heat was in the very sod, which the saint had printed.
Therefore, Christian men, be sure, wealth or rank possessing
Ye who now will bless the poor, shall yourselves find blessing.