Above the Church, Above the Clock
Above the Church, above the clock,
The haughty gilded weathercock
Swings upon a towering steeple,
Beacon to a lowland people.
Facing windward, there it stands,
And overlooks the windswept lands,
But cannot watch the seaward gale
Strike the peaceful flapping sail.
To every wind it crows in scorn,
“I can tell where you were born:”
The tiniest breeze can secret keep
Where he lays him down to sleep.
Am I destined to remain
An ever veering weather-cane,
Swung by all the winds that blow,
Whither I can never know?