In the forests which heave,
With every breeze that rushes through them,
Near the chuckle of that mountain stream,
Where your laughter rolls down the mountain top.
I’ve kept a tiny flower, under a bed of rocks

Windy and dark

Last embers of a dead stub

Dance of the clouds through a full moon

Kissing my forhead with each crack of lightening

Oh, wuthering are those heights

Where my heart leaps in bounds