Lying at anchor, the crew asleep,
The statue woke and turned her head;
How she would like to cleave the streets instead,
And ply a furrow plowed to keep.
So she stepped down to the deck
That groaned and sagged under her weight;
Happiness moved her to a lumbering gait,
Surprise — to stand erect;
The head winds followed her where she stood,
And ruffled her drapery carved of wood.
…nor does the benevolent captain understand —
The wood repaired and riding over the deep —
But asks himself, out of sight of land,
Is it the spray, or does the figure weep?