Good King Wenceslaus looked out on the feast of Stephen.   When the snow lay round about, deep and crisp and even.   Brightly shone the moon that night, though the frost was cruel,   When a poor man came in sight, gathering winter fuel.       Hither page and stand by me if thou knowst 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 Saint Agnes' fountain.       Bring me flesh and bring me wine, bring me pinelogs 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 blows stronger   Fails my heart, I know not how, I can go no longer.   Mark my footsteps my good page, tread thou in them boldly   Thou shalt find the winter's rage freeze thy blood less coldly.       In his master's 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.