The mountains raise their faces

The mountains raise their faces Up to the face of God; They are fresh with balmy graces And with flowers their feet are shod.

In their soul is a noise of gladness, Their veins swell out with song,— With a feathery touch of sadness, Like a dream of forgotten wrong.

They have set their song to the metre Of the bright-eyed summer days, And our Land, to-day they greet her, With lips that are red with praise.