The mountain people speak in quiet tones;

Their language is concise, their speech is brief.

Beneath the precipice, in ice-thinned air,

Their words are chosen carefully. No slack

Is tolerated; any long-winded,

Fancy prattle is a stranger to them.

Visitors will be welcomed and advised

To take the shortest route, while the light lasts;

If not, hospitality is arranged,

With self-explanation as the watchword.

Yet these are friendly people, warm inside,

Whose terseness is a camouflage, a mask.

At night, round warm fires, their hearts will sing;

The song soaring upwards, toward the peaks.