It is a carven figurehead that leans

Into the wind, beyond the plunging prow;

Wears a green vine of spray along the breast,

And sunlight golden hot upon the brow.

He looks across the morning with keen eyes,

Yet scarcely knows what wind beyond sail

Drives the ship on, but goes, because he must,

To meet the rain, the moonlight, or the hail.

How it is so, or why, he could not tell.

Question the grave bright silence in the eyes.

What marches of the weather made him wise?

No answer there, except, "I am! to say

Across what elements his courses lay.