Wondrous portent, set on high,
Moving through the silent sky,
Clothed in formless majesty,—
Who can read those words of light
On the star-lit wall of night?
“Mene, Tekel,” dost thou write?
Nay, thou bright Star in the East,
O’er no haughty monarch’s feast,
Prophet nor Chaldæan priest,
Doth thy gentle radiance shine;
Nobler resting-place is thine,
’Tis a Baby’s brow divine.
With the waning of the year
From afar thou dost appear,
Telling us that Christ is near.
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