On the slopes of Bethlehem,
Round their resting sheep,
Shepherds sat, and went and came,
Guarding holy sleep;
- the silent, high dome-spaces, Airy galleries,
Thronged they were with watching faces,
Thronged with open eyes.
- across the desert floor, Come, slow-drawing nigher,
Sages deep in starry lore,
Priests of burning Fire.
In the sky they read his story,
And, through starlight cool,
They come riding to the Glory,
To the Wonderful.