By Luis G. Dato
The mountain heaven is,
It towers tall to kiss
The bluest of blue skies,
And the green trees arise,
A quiet colonnade
While through the flowered glade,
The laughing crystal rills
Wend round among the hills.
A home where one may live
And pass so furtive
The merry summer hours
With butterflies and flowers
Where fruits of every taste
Grow wild like manna cast;
Where one beneath the moon
May sing to love, “Come soon!
Come near and take my hand!”
The hills are heaven’s land.
