The mountain peaks that pierce the sky, Stand stark against the azure high; And o’er them all the shadows creep, And silence stirs the heart to weep.

Yet midst this stillness, wild and deep, The streams let forth a ceaseless sigh: In waterfalls they rush and sweep, With sunny glints that beam and die.

And if these darkling rocks could speak, They’d tell of battles lost and won; Of pilgrims, fleeing, faint and weak, Sought refuge in their shade and sun.

For mingling leaves upon the trees, Whisper of stories dark and bright, The mysteries that never cease In Nature’s ever-changing light.

• Elizabeth Barrett Browning