freedom of the air!
And yet I sit and hesitate,
Although each moment that I wait
Brings to my soul a greater fear.
To me the grass seems very dear—
Dear seems the hut where dreams have crept
To me each midnight as I slept—
Dear seems the river, by whose brink
I oft have watched brown pebbles sink
Deep in the crumbling bridge's shade,
Where in the evening I have strayed!
My restless hands hold fast the wheel;
Once more the wing-controls I feel.
I move the rudder with my feet,
And settle firmly in the seat.
I start, and o'er the snowy grass
In ever quicker progress pass:
On either side the ground streaks by,
And soon above the grass I fly.
I feel the air beneath the wings;
At first a greater ease it brings—
But soon the stormy strife begins,
And if I lose, 'tis Death who wins.
The winds a thousand devils hold,
Who grasp my wings with fingers bold,
And keep me ceaselessly a-rock—
I seem to hear those devils mock
As I am thrown from side to side
In unseen eddies, terrified—
As suddenly I start to drop,
And when my plunging fall I stop,
Up am I swiftly thrown once more!
Like no great eagle do I soar,
But like a sparrow tempest-tost
I struggle on! My faith is lost:
My former confidence is dead,
And whispering fear has come instead.
Death ever dogs me close behind—
My frightened soul no peace can find.
I feel a torture in each nerve,
As to the right or left I swerve.
And now Imagination brings
Its evil thoughts—I watch the wings,
And wonder if those wings will break—
The tight-stretched wires seem to shake.
I see the ghastly, headlong rush,
And picture how the fall would crush
My helpless body on the ground.
With haggard eyes I turn around,
And contemplate the rocking tail,—
My drawn and sweating cheeks are pale.
Fear's clammy hands clutch at my heart!
I try, with unavailing art,
To summon thoughts of peaceful hours
Spent in some sunny field of flowers
When my half-opened eyes would look
On some old dream-inspiring book,
And not on this accursèd wheel,
And on this box of wood and steel
In which at pitch-and-toss with Death,
I play, and wonder if each breath
I tensely draw, will be my last.
The happy thoughts are swiftly past—
My frightened brain forbids them stay.
Dear London seems so far away,
And far away my well-loved friends!
Each second my existence ends
In my disordered mind, whose pace
I cannot check—its cog-wheels race,
Like some ungoverned, whirring clock,
When, frenziedly, it runs amok.
I have resolved that I will climb
A certain height—how slow seems time
As on its sluggish pivot creeps
The laggard finger-point, which keeps
The truthful record. O, how slow
Towards the clouds I seem to go!
And then ambition gains its mark at last!
The little finger o'er the point has passed!
I can descend again. With conscience clear
And end this battle with persistent fear!
The engine's clamour dies—there is no sound
Save whistling wires—as towards the ground
I gently float. My agony is gone.
What peace is mine as I go gliding on!
Calm after storm—contentment after pain—
Soft sleep to some tempestuous, burning brain—
The soothing harbour after foamy seas—
The gentle feeling of a perfect ease—
All, all are mine—though yet by gusts distressed!
Near is the ground, and with the ground comes rest.
Above the trees I glide—above the grass,
Above the snow-besprinkled earth I pass.
I touch the ground, run swift along, and stop—
Above the wheel my tired shoulders drop.
I leave my seat, and slowly move away ...
Cold is the wind: the clouds are grey,
I only wish my room to gain,
And in some book forget my pain,
And lose myself in fancied dreams
Across Titania's golden streams.

France, 1917.

Dreams of Autumn

To Carlton Berry

Killed in an Aeroplane Accident, July, 1916

London in May

A Fallen Leaf