Hymn to the Blue Ridge

By Glenna Wallace Moles © 1983-06

Issue: June, 1983

I see the rolling hills of home,
The mountains thick with pines.
Wild lilies frame the dusty roads,
Meadows dotted with dandelions.

Around the bend by a stand of trees
I see a country store.
The folks here never notice
It’s worn out boards and broken door.

They gather here to pass the time,
A respite from hard labor.
Their weathered faces quick to smile
As neighbor greets his neighbor.

Down the road is an old stone church
Built by families there.
Its humble entrance is studded with quartz,
It welcomes all people in prayer.

In silhouette atop the hill,
The cattle wend their way,
Plodding slowly toward the barn
As if marking the end of day.

Evening descends with feather touch,
Tranquillity brushes the air.
The sky’s awash with a million stars,
And the moon is climbing it’s stair.

Audacious frogs croak from the pond,
The cricket plays it’s tune.
The fox hounds on a distant hill
Are baying at the moon.

And I am lost in memories
Of carefree days gone by.
Of loving faces, who never more
Will hear the pine trees sigh.

Oh, beautiful Blue Ridge Mountains,
Your magic has captured me.
Again and again I must return,
From your spell I can never be free.

Editor’s Note: Mrs. Moles is from Dumont, New Jersey but wrote, “My late husband, Floyd (Sandy) Moles, was born and brought up in the Buffalo Mountain area. His mother, Addie Moles, and his brother, Clinton Moles, still live there and I visit them every year. I love that country dearly and have written this poem which I am enclosing for possible publication in your paper.”

We thank Mrs. Moles for both her poem and her interest in our paper. Even though she doesn’t live here, we can tell that she, like the staff of the Mountain Laurel, has her “Heart in the Blue Ridge.”