Deep in the folds of the mountains old,
Where the rhododendrons bloom,
And the fog drifts low through hemlock groves
Like spirits from the tomb,

There walks a beast the elders know,
Though few have seen him clear—
A stag with antlers made of moonlight
And eyes of amber fire.

They call him the Whisper Stag at dusk,
When the whip-poor-wills begin,
For he speaks in the wind through the chestnut leaves
And knows the hearts of men.

Some say he rose from the mountain roots
When the world itself was young,
When the rivers carved the ancient hills
And the first songs yet unsung.

His hooves leave no mark on the forest floor,
Nor break the winter snow,
And where he passes, barren ground
Will bloom and greenly grow.

An old coal miner once got lost
When the darkness closed around.
The mountain swallowed every trail,
No landmark could be found.

He wandered three long nights alone,
Till hunger made him weak,
When through the laurel came a glow
Upon the distant creek.

There stood the stag beside the stream,
His antlers crowned with stars.
He turned and walked through shadowed woods
Beneath the moon’s white scars.

The miner followed silently,
Though fear rode at his side,
Until he saw his cabin lamp
Shining warm across the hillside.

When he turned back to thank the beast,
The creature was not there—
Only a single silver hair
Caught in the mountain air.

Now folks still tell the tale at night
By woodstoves burning bright,
And hunters lost on the ridge
Pray for that ghostly light.

For if your heart is true and kind,
And respect the mountain’s ways,
The Whisper Stag may guide you home
Through the cold and foggy haze.

But those who take more than they need,
Or wound the hills for gold,
May hear his voice among the trees
And feel the mountain’s cold.

So tread with care where shadows rest,
And listen when winds sigh,
For the Whisper Stag still roams the peaks
Beneath the Appalachian sky.