Good King Wenceslas 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 into sight,
Gath'ring winter fuel.

"Hither, page, and stand by me,
If though know'st 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 pine logs hither:
Thou and I shall see him dine,
When we bear them thither."
Page and monarch, forth they went,
Forth they went together;
Through the rude wind's 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 on no longer."
"Mark my footsteps, my good page;
Tread thou in them boldly:
Thou will find the winter's rage
Freeze thy blood less coldly."