Upon the mountain’s misty crest,

Where ancient pines stand manifest,

A breeze weaves through the needled boughs

With secrets from forgotten vows.

A traveler pauses on the stone,

Hearing a faint and mournful tone—

Not wind, but voices from the past,

Of love too beautiful to last.

They speak of meetings in the glen,

Of promises made by mortal men,

Of tears that fell like morning dew

When fate decreed their paths askew.

Now centuries have drifted by;

The pines still sing their lullaby.

They guard the tales of joy and pain

Through silent snow and summer rain.

So listen when the mountains call—

For every heart has built a wall

Around some memory, deep and true,

That whispers through the pines to you.