stars, I have to climb
And o'er the sleeping country fly,
And such far-echoing clamour make
That all the villages must wake.
So must I desecrate this quiet time
Of soft and drowsy dreams!

The hour comes ... soon must I say farewell
To this fair earth.
Then to my little room I go
Where I perhaps no more shall dwell.
Shall I return?—The Gods but know.
Perchance again I shall not sleep
On that white bed in silence deep.
For soon the hour comes to say farewell
To this fair, friendly earth.

I stand there long, before into the gloom
I take my way.
There are the pictures of my friends
And all the treasures of my room
On which my lamp soft radiance sends.
And long with lingering gaze I look
Upon each much belovèd book.
I stand, and dream—before into the gloom
I sadly take my way.

And now I gain the field whence I must part
Upon my quest.
My Pegasus of wood and steel
Is ready straining at the start.
The governor is at the wheel—
And, with an ever-growing roar,
Across the hidden fields we soar.
So, with one envious look from Earth I part
Upon my midnight quest.

Beneath me lies the sleeping countryside
Hazy and dim,
And here and there a little gleam,
Like stars upon the heavens wide,
Speaks of some wretch who cannot dream—
But on his bed all night must toss
And hear me as I pass across,
In droning flight above the countryside,
Hazy, and huge, and dim.

And in the great blue night I ever rise
Towards the stars,
As to the hostile lands I sail
High in the dark and cloudless skies
Whose gloom our gloomy wings doth veil.
Beneath, a scarce-seen ribbon shows
Where through the woods a river flows,
As in the shadowy night I ever rise
Towards the scattered stars.

Now high above War's frontiers do I sit—
Above the lines.
Great lights, like flowers, rise and fall:
On either side red flashes spit
Hot death at those poor souls which crawl
On secret errands. O, how grim
Must be that midnight slaughter dim!
And happy am I that so high I sit
Above those cruel lines!

Each man beneath me now detests my race
With iron hate.
Each tiny light I see must shine
Upon some grim, unfriendly face,
Who curses England's name and mine,
And would be glad if both were gone—
But steadily must I fly on,
Though every soul beneath me loathes my race
With stern, unceasing hate.

I see a far-flung City all ablaze
With jewelled lamps:
I trace its quays, its roads, its squares,
And all its intermingled ways,
And, as I wonder how it dares
To flaunt itself,—the City dies,
And in an utter darkness lies,
For I have terrified that town ablaze
With twinkling, jewelled lamps.

But, see!—the furnace with its ruddy breath
Which I must wreck!
The searchlights sweep across the sky—
Long-fingered ministers of Death—
I look deep in their cold blue eye,
Incessant shells with blinding light
Show every wire, clear and white!
There is the furnace with its ruddy breath
Which I must wreck;—

It lies beneath—my time has come at last
To do my work!
I wait—O! will you never stop
Your fearful shells, that burst so fast?—
And then—I hear destruction drop
Behind my back as I release
Such fearful death with such great ease.
Burst on, you shells! My time has come at last
To do my deadly work.

Then do I turn, and hurry swiftly back
Towards my home.
I gladly leave that place behind!
No more I hear the shrapnel's crack—
No more my eyes the searchlights blind.
I cross the lines with lightening breast
And sail into the friendly West.
How glad am I to hurry swiftly back
Towards my peaceful home!

I reach the field—and then I softly land.
My work is o'er!
I leave my hot and panting steed,
And clasp a comrade's outstretched hand,
And with him to my bedroom speed.
Then, over steaming beakers set,
The night's fierce menace soon forget.
How great a welcome waits me when I land—
When all my work is o'er!

But ere I search shy sleep on my white bed
I greet the dawn,
And think, with heart weighed down with grief,
How cruel this dawn to those whose dead
Lie shattered, torn—whom, like a thief
At darkest midnight, I have slain.
Poor, unknown victims!—real my pain!
What widows, orphans, sweethearts see their dead
This cruel, hopeless dawn?

France, 1917.

Despair

The Horrors of Flying