Let my soul, a shining tree, br Silver branches lift towards thee, br Where on a hallowed winter’s night br The clear-eyed angels may alight. br br And if there should be tempests in br My spirit, let them surge like din br Of noble melodies at war; br With fervour of such blades of triumph as are br Flashed in white orisons of saints who go br On shafts of glory to the ecstasies they know.