The Eighth Sin/The Weathercock
THE WEATHERCOCK.
I often envy the golden cock Atop St. Mary's spireWhat sights there are for him to see What music to admire—The rose-red dawns, the chime of bells, The sunsets fringed with fire.
From his windy vantage does he see The crumbling walls of grey?And Isis, through the cloth of green Stitching her silver way?Does the scent of Cotswold violets come From twenty miles away?
Aloft in the cool blue void of night Does he count the stars? UntilThrough the smoke of smouldering dawn he hears His brethren on Cumnor HillHailing the flames of coming day With voices clear and shrill?
Alas, be neither hears nor sees His gilded eyes are blindAnd he must always face the breeze Nor ever look behind—If the wind be east, though the sun set red He may not ever turn his head!