The Weather-Vane

To what shall I compare
The veering mind I bear ?
Yon minion of the air,
Yon gilded shaft, my chosen emblem I declare !

I turn about, about ;
Controlled by every rout
That trains with Hope or Doubt;
Who smiles, I smile again, or answer flout with flout.

Within the draft I’m caught
Of all prevailing thought;
By many masters taught,
Their varying precepts I confuse, and bring to naught.

A changeling me they call;
I have no stay, in all, —
No shield, no rampart-wall;
I safely drift about, — let others stand, or fall!

I bend, I do not break ;
I light obeisance make
To scourging storms, that rake
The harvest from the field and shattered forests take.

Since nothing here I see
Save mutability,
With it I will agree;
Yea, I on Change’s cap the nodding plume will be !

Some good remains behind:
The clear-perceiving mind
In me, at least, shall find
An index true of all the tempers of the wind !