A carol for Christmas

Sweet Music, sweeter far Than any song is sweet: Sweet Music heavenly rare, Mine ears, (O peers!) doth greet. Yon gentle flocks, whose fleeces, pearl’d with dew, Resemble heaven, whom golden drops make bright: Listen, O listen, now;— O not to you Our pipes make sport to shorten weary night:— But voices most divine Make blissful harmony: Voices that seem to shine, For what else clears the sky? Tunes can we hear, but not the singers see; The tune’s divine, and so the singers be. Lo! how the firmament Within an azure fold The flock of stars hath pent, That we might them behold. Yet from their beams proceedeth not this light, Nor can their crystals such reflection give. What then doth make the elements so bright? The heavens are come down on earth to live.