My Inheritance Is The Hills

By Frank W. Adams © 1989

Issue: January, 1989

My inheritance is the hills,
From whose bosom there sprung
A plain and simple mountain boy
Whose heart has ever clung

To mysterious majesties
Whose cornstalks all askew
Are leaning downward ever more
A sad, disheartening view.

Each rock is an obstacle,
Which plow must circumvent.
The scanty harvest of the corn
Leads to loud lament!

And yet I have a mountain heart;
I love the barren hill.
Its lonely countenance
Each day enthralls me still.

I look beyond the highest hill,
Far beyond my scan.
I know that on the heavenly plain
Someday I'll surely stand!

Mourn not, you mountain men!
Do not grieve for me!
The mountain is my monument
And will be your legacy.