Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, IN THE BLUE RIDGE, by OLIVE TILFORD DARGAN


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

IN THE BLUE RIDGE, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: The mountain night is shining, jim of tellico
Last Line: And beg him bless you, bless you ever, jim of tellico!
Alternate Author Name(s): Burke, Fielding
Subject(s): Grief; Sorrow; Sadness


THE mountain night is shining, Jim of Tellico,
Shining so it hurts the heart to see
The gleam upon the laurel leaf, the locust shaking snow
To the rippling Nantahala that is laughing up to me,
Hurts till the cry comes and the big tears are free.
O, why should my heart cry to you that will not hear,
Yonder where the ridges lie so still above the town?
But the pain that's calling seems to bring you near,
As the tears in my eyes bring the stars a-swimming down.

Mother sits and cries, with my baby on her knee;
Father curses deep, a-breathing hard your name;
But never do I hear and never do I see,
I with my head low, working out my shame,
Eyes burning dry and my heart like a flame;
For I hate you then—I hate you, Jim of Tellico,
And grip my needle tighter, every stitch a sin,
The hate growing bigger till the thing I sew
Seems a shroud I'm glad a-making just to lay you in.

But the slow sun passes with its day-long stare,
Like a bold eye at the window when the blind
Is missing and you mustn't know the eye is there,—
Just shut your heart up close and hide the thing you mind;
And comes the blessed twilight calling of its kind,
When all the little creatures with soft voices stir,
Little hiding things that cry so tremblingly,
Till I lay my needle by,—O, how the sweet woods whirr!
And fly down to the river that is laughing up to me.

Then the hate goes out o' me with the moonlight creeping in,
And the water crooning cool-like in my veins.
Who could smell the white azalea thinking then of sin,
Or look on laurel buds a-caring for her pains?
It's just my heart breaks open and the wild flood rains.
O beauty of the moon-mist winding, winding slow,
Till the tall lynns quiver vainly up to hold
One leafy moment more the breathing, gliding flow
Of the loosened wreath of silver lifting into gold!

The moosewood bride is glowing, all her curls awave,
The colt's-foot in millions makes the ground like a bed,
So sweet-breathed and green now, in winter scarlet brave,
And blossom lips of tulip trees are meeting overhead.
But never shall a tear fall for their love spent and dead.
Doves are building yonder in that clump of maples deep,
Do maple leaves come soonest for they love to hide
The earliest nest and hear the first faint cheep
Telling them of joy too dear, too sweet to bide?

The joy that was my own, Jim, when our birdling came,
Telling me that love is never spent and dead,—
Though you left the tears to me, and left to me the shame,—
For the wildwood broke in blossoms round my bed,
And the fairest on my bosom laid its stainless head.
Can God who made this night His own great heart to please,
And made that other night like this a year ago,
Be mad at us for loving? O, I fall upon my knees
And beg Him bless you, bless you ever, Jim of Tellico!





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