Wherever I Wander, My Spirit Still Dwells, In The Silvery San Juan[1] With Its Streamlet And Dells; Whose Mountainous Summits, So Rugged And High, With Their Pinnacles Pierce The Ethereal Sky; Where The Daisy, The Rose, And The Sweet Columbine Blend Their Colors With Those Of The Sober Hued Pine; Where The Ceaseless Erosions Of Measureless Time, Have Chiseled The Grotto And Canon Sublime; Have Sculptured The Cliff, And The Stern Mountain Wall; Have Formed The Bold Turret, Impressive And Tall; Have Cut The Deep Gorge With Its Wonderful Caves, Sepulchral And Gloomy; Whose Vast Architraves Support The Stalactites, Both Pendant And White, Which With The Stalagmites Beneath Them Unite; Where Nestles A Valley, Sequestered And Grand, Worn Out Of The Rock By The Same Tireless Hand, Surrounded By Mountains, Majestic And Gray, Which Smile From Their Heights On The Town Of Ouray. Wherever I Wander, My Ears Hear The Sound Of Thy Waters, Which Plunge With A Turbulent Bound O'Er The Precipice, Seething And Laden With Foam; My Ears Hear Their Music Wherever I Roam; Where The Cataract'S Rhapsody, Joyous And Light, Enchants In The Morning And Soothes In The Night; Where Blend The Loud Thunders, Sonorous And Deep, With The Sobs Of The Rain As The Black Heavens Weep; Where The Whispering Zephyr, And Murmuring Breeze, Unite With The Soft, Listless Sigh Of The Trees; And Where To The Fancy, The Voices Of Air Wail In Tones Of Distress, Or In Shrieks Of Despair; Where Mourneth The Night Wind, With Desolate Breath, In Accents Suggestive Of Sorrow And Death; As Falls From The Heavens, So Fleecy And Light, The Winter'S Immaculate Mantle Of White; Wherever I Wander, These Sounds Greet My Ears, And The Silvery San Juan To My Fancy Appears.