Clothed in her many hues of green,
Far Appalachia rises high
And takes a robe of different hue
To match the seasons passing by.
Her summits crowned by nature's hand,
With grass-grown balds for all to see,
Her towering rocks and naked cliffs
Hid by some overhanging tree.
In early spring the Maple dons
Her bright red mantle overnight;
The Beech is clad in dainty tan,
The Sarvis in a robe of white.
The Red Bud in profusion blooms
And rules the hills a few short days,
And Dogwoods with their snowy white
Are mingled with its purple blaze.
High on the frowning mountain side
Azaleas bloom like tongues of flame,
The Laurel flaunts her waxy pink,
And Rhododendrons prove their fame.
Then comes the sturdy Chestnut tree
With plumes like waving yellow hair,
And Wild Grapes blossom at their will
To scent the glorious mountain air.
But when the frost of autumn falls,
Like many other fickle maids,
She lays aside her summer robes
And dons her gay autumnal shades.
Oh, Appalachia, loved by all!
Long may you reign, aloof, supreme,
In royal robes of nature's hues,
A monarch proud--a mountain Queen.
--Martha Creech