The snow has drifted deep against the door And smoke is flung, a truce flag to the sky. Long shadows stalk the hills. The fox's cry Is carried, lonely, with the north wind's roar. Across the meadow's shadow-marbled floor The hoof prints of the racing roe deer lie, And high above the pines which sway and sigh A silver sickle sails and two stars soar. All doors are barred and fires made to blaze – Upon the hills no human voice is heard – Yet sickle-sharp, the songs of glory reach Across a million miles in perfect praise; The moon, in wordless tribute to the Word, Night unto winter night uttereth speech.