To A Weathercock
I am moved by passing winds,
Spun mockingly upon one stand
Where all flight ends where it begins.
Strange breezes, from a distant land
Have called me,, too, and I have turned
And turned and could not understand.
Beneath each season’s sun I’ve burned
With you, and watched freed wings depart
For dreamed-of-places where I’ve yearned
To go. Do these things touch your heart?
I’ve seen you fret on windless days,
Felt more than a metal in your art.
And I have pondered on the ways
Of wind and God that so confound,
And I have heard your turning round
Sounding the grief I could not phrase…