Her Picture

Autumn was cold in Plymouth town;   The wind ran round the shore, Now softly passing up and down,     Now wild and fierce and fleet,       Wavering overhead,     Moaning in the narrow street       As one beside the dead. The leaves of wrinkled gold and brown   Fluttered here and there,   But not quite heedless where; For as in hood and sad-hued gown   The Rose of Plymouth took the air, They whirled, and whirled, and fell to rest       Upon her gentle breast, Then on the happy earth her foot had pressed. Autumn is wild in Plymouth town,   Barren and bleak and cold, And still the dead leaves flutter down   As the years grow old. And still—forever gravely fair—   Beneath their fitful whirl,   New England’s sweetest girl, Rose Standish, takes the air.