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.
Her Picture
More from Poet
|
Sweet, sweet, sweet, Is the wind’s song, Astir in the rippled wheat All day long. It hath the brook’s wild gayety, The sorrowful cry of the sea. Oh hush and hear! Sweet, sweet and clear, Above the locust’s whirr And hum of bee Rises that soft, pathetic harmony. In the meadow-grass... |
The tide slips up the silver sand, Dark night and rosy day; It brings sea-treasures to the land, Then bears them all away. On mighty shores from east to west It wails, and gropes, and cannot rest. O Tide, that still doth ebb and flow Through night to golden day:— Wit, learning, beauty,... |
Come down, ye graybeard mariners, Unto the wasting shore! The morning winds are up,—the gods Bid me to dream no more. Come tell me whither I must sail, What peril there may be, Before I take my life in hand And venture out to sea! “We may not tell thee where to sail, Nor what the... |
“dame, how the moments go— And the bride is not ready! Call all her tiring maids, Paul, Jean, and Thedie. Is this your robe, my dear? Faith, but she ’s steady! The bridegroom is blest who gets Such a brave lady.” “Pardi! That throat is fair— How he will kiss it! Here is your kerchief,... |
|
More shy than the shy violet, Hiding when the wind doth pass, Nestled in the nodding grass, With morning mist all wet, In open woodland ways The Quaker Lady strays. Pale as noonday cloudlets are, Floating in the blue, This little wildwood star Blooms in light and dew. Sun and shadow... |