Rhymes of Old Plimouth

by Herbert Randall

TO MY PILGRIM MOTHER.

To her who sanctified the simple things of life,

Across the journeying years I bring

A wreath of amaranth and asphodel

To mingle with the everlasting light about her brow,

And on her breast, serene,

I fold the glory of an angel’s wing.

Singlehurst,

Plympton, Massachusetts.