Whose words are these I think I know.  
His house is high on the mountain peak;  
But who also sees me stopping here
To watch the woods filling me.  

If the sky is asked is empty there    
It answers without a chapel near;  
In the trees walk quietly between    
In my ear the wind does seek.  

In the forgotten speech it calls  
In the winding snow to follow,    
Blurred path trees have swept,  
Buried felled limbs have knelt.  

Dark woods have a lovely air  
But have many promises to keep,  
And I listen to their despair,  
And I listen to their despair.