Let my soul, a shining tree, 
Silver branches lift towards thee, 
Where on a hallowed winter?s night 
The clear-eyed angels may alight. 

And if there should be tempests in
My spirit, let them surge like din 
Of noble melodies at war; 
With fervour of such blades of triumph as are 
Flashed in white orisons of saints who go 
On shafts of glory to the ecstasies they know.