Through snowy streets one Christ­mas Eve,
In win­ter bleak and wild,
Wandered, with bare and ach­ing feet,
A lit­tle stran­ger child.

How bright­ly through each win­dow pane
Shone gay and gleam­ing rooms
Where stood the spark­ling lamp lit trees,
Laden with Christ­mas blooms!

Alas! no com­fort could they bring
This lit­tle lone­ly heart;
Fast fell his tears to see the joy
In which he had no part.

“Each child has for his own to­day
A lit­tle tree and light;
I on­ly have no gift at all,
Out in the freez­ing night.

“In my dear home so far away
One al­so burned for me:
My bro­thers, sis­ters round its gleam
Shouted and danced for glee.

“Now all the joy is fled away,
Broken the hap­py band.
And I, for­got­ten and alone,
In this cold, for­eign land.

“Will no kind mo­ther let me in,
For sake of char­ity?
Is there not, by so ma­ny hearths,
One lit­tle nook for me?

I ask not, from your la­den trees,
One sin­gle gift or toy
Only a place to sit apart.
And see the child­ren’s joy.

Timid he knocked at gate and door,
But all were deaf with­in:
None came, no gen­tle voice or hand,
To bid him wel­come in.

The par­ents gave the Christ­mas gifts,
And on their child­ren smiled:
Each thought of his own lit­tle ones;
None of the lone­ly child.

O ho­ly, gra­cious Christ, he cried,
No par­ent have I here;
No help is left, save only Thee,
O Je­sus blest and dear!

He rubbed his lit­tle frost-chilled hand,
And, stiff with cold and pain,
Lingered to watch the case­ments’ glow,
Crouched in a nar­row lane.

God hears the pray­er that man de­nies—
For see! a love­ly sight,
A glory clear­er than the sun
Made dark­est al­ley bright.

While, glid­ing soft in snow-white robe,
There came ano­ther child:
Like mu­sic from the heav’n­ly land
Sounded His ac­cents mild—

I am the blessè­d Christ, He said,
“Once born a child like thee:
Poor lit­tle lone for­sak­en one,
Thou art most dear to Me.

A tree more lov­ely far than all
Which thou hast seen tonight,
I will My­self up­rear for thee
Under the sky’s clear height.

Thus gra­cious­ly the Christ Child spoke
And waved to Heav’n His hand,
When lo! more fair than earth’s best blooms
Behold: the tree did stand!

How full of clus­tered stars it gleamed.
With branch­es wide out­spread,
While won­drous ra­di­ance, far and near,
Its Heav’n-lit ta­pers shed!

The child looked up with deep wide eyes;
Strange awe his breast did fill:
Then, gaz­ing on the heav’n­ly sight,
The lit­tle heart grew still.

It seemed to him a love­ly dream;
Till, bend­ing from the tree,
Fair white winged an­gels reached their hands
And drew him lov­ing­ly:

And, from earth’s nar­row, dark­some ways,
By sin and woe de­filed,
The Sa­vior’s gra­cious arms once more
Took up a lit­tle child.

He lay, a stiff and life­less form.
In morn­ing grey and chill:
And they who found him, won­dering saw
His pale lips smil­ing still.

Thank God! no more in cold and pain
The lit­tle wan­derer sighs;
And soon for­got­ten is earth’s grief
In peace­ful par­adise!