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?