Hill Born

Hill Born
by Henry Dalton
(from the book of the same title "Hill Born")
(Copyright 1954 THE KALEIDOGRAPH PRESS)


We are the hill born. Townfolks gawk
At us on Saturdays
And keep their distance. They smile at our talk
And look down on our country ways.

Our bodies are shaped by rocky slopes.
Our thoughts are bent to the plow.
And we are slow of speech. Our hopes
Are such as hills allow.

The taste of pine is in our wells,
Its biting green on our sky.
We are born to love hill tastes and smells.
Wild grape and crab apple are wry.

The summerness of plowing gives way
To far autumn horns of the hunter.
Sharp axes on oak and hickory
Ring out like bells all winter.

When joy is a flower or grief's a nettle
Our words pull up to a halt.
Don't smile, townfolks. If we talk too little
It's not our fault:

For hills are possessive, hills are bitter;
Hills are jealous of their young.
Folks blame it on the cat -- but I know better.
The hills got our tongue.

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A good friend of mine trades in antiques along with a few "odds and ends". He said someone offered him a box of junk, which he claimed this book of poems by Henry Dalton out of that box. Great save for James. Thanks brother!


The poems have a sort of Gaelic connection to the land and nature. The collection has deep resonance with rural south of the mid 20th century.