The hoary mountains seem gray and cold
At timber line.
And their wrinkled faces are worn and old
At timber line.
Their aged temples are wan and bare
'Neath their silvery shock of aspen hair,
And Time has set his seal everywhere
At timber line.

The lordly elk in contentment roves
At timber line.
And the shy deer sport in the sylvan groves
At timber line.
And the grouse, affrighted, tread softly where
In the thickets the grizzly has made his lair;
And the big-horn bounds up the chasm's stair
At timber line.

We are far above the old, sordid world
At timber line.
With its cares and passions and woes infurled
At timber line.
Is there aught in the forms of human speech
To voice the lesson these old hills teach?
While Heaven seems just within our reach
At timber line.