The Weather Vane

I saw a painted weather-vane That stood above the sands,— A little shining mermaiden That turned and waved her hands.

She turned and turned and waved and waved, Then faced toward the hill, Then faced about and back again, Then suddenly stood still.

And every time the wind came up Out of the great cool sea, She'd spin and spin and whirl her arms As if in dancing glee.

And when the wind came down the road With scent of new-mown hay, She whirled about and danced again In ecstasy of play.

It seemed as if her madcap heart Could never quite decide Whether her heaven was on the hill Or on the drifting tide.

And would she rather be a sprite To guard some singing stream, And sparkle in the summer field And through the forest gleam?

Or would she be an ocean child, A spirit of the deep, To run upon the billows wild And in their cradle sleep?

And still she turned and veered between The river and the sea, And many a time I thought her hands Were praying to be free.

And then there came a night of storm, Of wind and dark and snow, And in the morn my weather-vane Had vanished in the blow.