قراءة كتاب The Dawn Patrol, and other poems of an aviator

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‏اللغة: English

The Dawn Patrol, and other poems of an aviator

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المؤلف:

Bewsher Paul

دار النشر: Project Gutenberg

الصفحة رقم: 2

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The Dawn Patrol

Sometimes I fly at dawn above the sea,
Where, underneath, the restless waters flow—
Silver, and cold, and slow.
Dim in the East there burns a new-born sun,
Whose rosy gleams along the ripples run,
Save where the mist droops low,
Hiding the level loneliness from me.

And now appears beneath the milk-white haze
A little fleet of anchored ships, which lie
In clustered company,
And seem as they are yet fast bound by sleep,
Although the day has long begun to peep,
With red-inflamèd eye,
Along the still, deserted ocean ways.

The fresh, cold wind of dawn blows on my face
As in the sun's raw heart I swiftly fly,
And watch the seas glide by.
Scarce human seem I, moving through the skies,
And far removed from warlike enterprise—
Like some great gull on high
Whose white and gleaming wings beat on through space.

Then do I feel with God quite, quite alone,
High in the virgin morn, so white and still,
And free from human ill:
My prayers transcend my feeble earth-bound plaints—
As though I sang among the happy Saints
With many a holy thrill—
As though the glowing sun were God's bright Throne.

My flight is done. I cross the line of foam
That breaks around a town of grey and red,
Whose streets and squares lie dead
Beneath the silent dawn—then am I proud
That England's peace to guard I am allowed;—
Then bow my humble head,
In thanks to Him Who brings me safely home.

Luxeuil-les-Bains, 1917.

The Joy of Flying

When heavy on my tired mind
The world, and worldly things, do weigh,
And some sweet solace I would find,
Into the sky I love to stray,
And, all alone, to wander round
In lone seclusion from the ground.

Ah! Then what solitude is mine—
From grovelling mankind aloof!
Their road is but a thin-drawn line:
Their busy house a scarce-seen roof.
That little stain of red and brown
They boast about!—It is their town!

How small their petty quarrels seem!
Poor, crawling multitudes below;
Which, like the ants, in feverish stream
From place to place move to and fro!
Like ants they work: like ants they fight,
Assuming blindly they are right.

Soon their existence I forget,
In joy that on these flashing wings
I cleave the skies—O! let them fret—
Now know I why the skylark sings
Untrammelled in the boundless air—
For mine it is his bliss to share!

Now do I mount a billowy cloud,
Now do I sail low o'er a hill,
And with a seagull's skill endowed
Circle, and wheel, and drop at will—
Above the villages asleep,
Above the valleys, shadowed deep,

Above the water-meadows green
Whose streams, which intermingled flow,
Like silver lattice-work are seen
A-gleam upon the plain below—
Above the woods, whose naked trees
Move new-born buds upon the breeze.

And far away above the haze
I see white mountain-summits rise,
Whose snow with sunlight is ablaze
And shines against the distant skies.
Such thoughts those towering ranges bring
That I float on a-wondering!

So do I love to travel on
Through lonely skies, myself alone;
For then the feverish fret is gone
Which on this earth I oft have known.
Kind is the God who lets me fly
In sweet seclusion through the sky!

France, 1917.

The Crash

The rich, red blood
Doth stain the fair, green grass, and daisies white
In generous flood ...
This sun-drowsed day for me is darkest night.
O! wreck of splintered wood and twisted wire,
What blind, unmeasured hatred you inspire
Because yours was the power that life to end ...
Of him, who was my friend!

This morn we lay upon the grass,
And watched the languid hours pass;
A lark, deep in the sky's blue sea,
Sang ecstasies to him and me.

And with the daisies did he play,
As on the waving grass we lay,
And made a little daisy chain
To bring his childhood back again.

And while he watched the clouds above
He drifted into thoughts of love.
He said, "I know why skylarks sing—
Because they love, and it is Spring.

And if I had a voice as they,
So would I sing this golden May,
Because I love, and loved am I,
And when I wander through the sky,

I wish I had a skylark's voice,
And with such singing could rejoice.
Oh, happy, happy, are these days!
My heart is full of deep-felt praise,

And thanks to God who brings this bliss!
Oh! what a happiness is this—
To lie upon the grass and know
In two short days that I shall go

And see my Love's fair face again,
And wander in some flowery lane,
Forgetting all the world around,
And only knowing I have found

A Spring enchantment, which is mine
Through God's sweet sympathy divine, ...
May these two days now swiftly pass!"
He laughed upon the sunlit grass.

The days have passed, but passed, alas! how slow!
See down the road a sad procession go!
Oh! hear the wailing music moan!
Why? Why such grief am I to know?
Dear God! I wish I were alone.
For by the grave a girl with streaming eyes
Doth make mine dim.
While high among the sunny springtime skies,
The larks still hymn.

France, 1917.

The Night Raid

Around me broods the dim, mysterious Night,
Star-lit and still.
No whisper comes across the Plain,
Asleep beneath the breezes light,
Which scarcely stir the growing grain.
Slow chimes the quiet midnight hour
In some unseen and distant tower,
While round me broods the vague, mysterious Night,
Star-lit, and cool, and still.

And I must desecrate this silent time
Of drowsy dreams!
On mighty wings towards the sky,
Towards the

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