The Mountain

High on the hill, where the cloud-wreaths lie,
And the winds that sweep with a mountain cry;
In the heart of the rocks where the echoes meet;
There the spirit soars, and my soul is fleet.

Where the granite towers with a solemn grace,
And the rivers flow with a proud embrace;
In the stillness of it — my dreams take flight,
And my heart is filled with the sky’s delight.

• G L D Mackay