It is snowing. The huge world is perhaps dead. This is December.

But how warm it is in the small room!

The fireplace filled with burning coals

Colors the ceiling with a drowsy reflection,

And all you can hear is some water softly boiling.

Up above, on the shelf, over the two beds,

Under his glass globe, a crown on his head,

One of his hands holding the world, the other ready

To protect those children who trust in it,

Kindly in his long solemn dress

And magnificent under that large yellow hat,

The Infant Jesus of Prague reigns and rules.

He is all alone in front of the hearthside shining on him

Like the host hidden within the sanctuary,

The Child-God watches over his small brothers until the day comes.

Unheard like breath which is exhaled,

Eternal existence fills the room, equal

To all those innocent naive poor tots!

When he is with us, no harm can come.

We can sleep, Jesus our brother, is here.

He is ours, and all these good things as well:

The marvellous doll, and the wooden horse,

And the sheep, are there, all three of them in that corner.

And we sleep, but all those good things are ours!

The curtains are pulled … Outside, somewhere

In the snow and the night a kind of hour rings.

The child in his warm bed contentedly understands

That he is sleeping and that someone who loves him is there,

Moves a bit, murmurs indistinctly, puts his arm out,

Tries to wake up and cannot.