There is a windmill in the park next door
That once no doubt drew water through the bore.
It doesn’t any more.

The sails still turn; the head still swivels round
To catch the breeze, but this is all mere sound
And fury without grounds:

The pump is disconnected. We might learn
From this wise windmill when it is our turn
To be uncoupled or spurned,

For by its very idleness it gains
In beauty. The old movement still remains.
All it lost was its chains.

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I love windmills. I love their standing poetry. I’m talking old windmills used to draw water. The new-fangled windmills used to generate electricity I don’t like. Is that because they come in herds or because they are new? I don’t know.