There are places so deep in these mountains,
Too deep for adventure to find,
Where silence suspends like a cobweb,
And nature obeys outside time.
A thousand springs’ worth of wildflowers
Have reached to the sky all unknown,
And rocks that were hewn by the Ice Age
Are still stacked up stone upon stone.
The trees that fall deep in that forest
Have no one to muse about sound,
And the myths written deep in those mountains
Are those that will never be found.
Yet the Maker of Mountains is watching,
Not turning His love or His gaze—
And there, alone with the Artist,
The heart of the mountains gives praise.