She rests atop the pines of a dusky ridge backbone, and presides over the Appalachian country church cemetery, she casts her light upon Mountain Laurel, pristine white of purity and gracefulness, assembled as if flirtatious, fluttering eyes young maidens awaiting their betrothed, to serve their beaus the bounty of a Sunday church picnic, in the heart of summer, with deep kisses neath blooming magnolia trees, a vision my eyes behold, of long ago, their peaceful presence of moonlit Mountain Laurel.