Passionate peace is in the sky And on the snow in silver sealed The beasts are perfect in the field And men seem men so suddenly But take ten swords, and ten times ten, And blow the bugle in praising men For we are for all men under the sun And they are against us every one And misers haggle, and mad men clutch And there is peril in praising much And we have the terrible tongues un-curled That praise the world to the sons of the world.
The idle humble hill and wood Are bowed about the sacred Birth And for one little while the earth Is lazy with the love of good But ready are you and ready am I If the battle blow and the guns go by For we are for all men under the sun And they are against us every one For the men that hate herd altogether To pride and gold and the great white feather And the thing is graven in star and stone That the men that love are all alone.
Hunger is hard and time is tough But bless the beggars and kiss the kings For hope has broken the heart of things And nothing was ever praised enough But hold the shield for a sudden swing And point the sword in praising a thing For we are for all men under the sun And they are against us every one And mime and merchant, thane and thrall, Hate us because we love them all Only till Christmas time goes by Passionate peace is in the sky.
As I looked out one May morning, I saw the tree-tops green; I said: "My crown I will lay down And live no more a queen."
Then I tripped down my golden steps All in my silken gown, And when I stood in the open wood, I met some gipsies brown.
"O gentle, gentle gipsies, That roam the wide world through, Because I hate my crown and state O let me come with you.
"My councillors are old and grey, And sit in narrow chairs; But you can hear the birds sing clear, And your hearts are as light as theirs."
"If you would come along with us, Then you must count the cost; For though in Spring the sweet birds sing, In Winter comes the frost.
"Your ladies serve you all the day With courtesy and care; Your fine-shod feet they tread so neat, But a gipsy's feet go bare.
"You wash in water running warm Through basins all of gold; The streams where we roam have silvery foam, But the streams, the streams are cold.