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: 6

mind
Above its clouds could climb as well,
And leave behind
The world and all its crowds,
And ever dwell
In such a calm and limpid solitude
With ne'er a breath unkind or harsh or rude
To break the spell—
With ne'er a thought to drive away
The golden splendour of the day.
Alone and lost beneath the tranquil blue,
My God! With you!

Written in an Aeroplane.

Autumn Regrets

That I were Keats! And with a golden pen
Could for all time preserve these golden days
In rich and glowing verse, for poorer men,
Who felt their wonder, but could only gaze
With silent joy upon sweet Autumn's face,
And not record in any wise its grace!
Alas! But I am even dumb as they—
I cannot bid the fleeting hours stay,
Nor chain one moment on a page's space.

That I were Grieg! Then, with a haunting air
Of murmurs soft, and swelling, grand refrains
Would I express my love of Autumn fair
With all its wealth of harvest, and warm rains:
And with fantastic melodies inspire
A memory of each mad sunset's fire
In which the day goes slowly to its death
As through the fragrant woods dim Evening's breath
Doth soothe to sleep the drowsy songbirds' choir.

That I were Corot! Then September's gold
Would I store up in painted treasuries
That, when the world seemed grey I could behold
Its blazing colour with sweet memories,
And each elusive colour would be mine
That decorates these afternoons benign.
Ah! Then I could enshrine each fleeting hue
Which dyes the woodland, and enslave the blue
Of sky and haze, with genius divine.

How sad these wishes! When I have no art
Of poetry, or music, or of brush,
With which to calm the swelling of my heart
By capturing the misty country's hush
In muted violins; I cannot hymn
The shadowy silence of the copses dim;
Nor can I paint September's sky-crowned hills.
Gone then, the wonder which my vision fills,
When all the earth is bound by Winter grim!

Westgate.

To Hilda:

On Her Seventeenth Birthday.

Now has rich time brought you a gift of gold—
A long sweet year which you can shape at will,
And deck with roses warm, or with the chill
And heartless lilies—God gives strength to mould
Our days, and lives, with fingers firm and bold,
And make them noble, straight and clean from ill,
Though few are willing, and their years they fill
With dross which they regret when they are old.

What splendid hours of your life are these
When youth and childhood wander hand in hand,
And give you freely all which best can please—
Laughter and friends and dreams of Fairyland!
Mourn not the seasons past with useless tears,
But greet the pleasure of the coming years!

France, 1917.

Clouds

'Tis strange to leave this world of woods and hills,
This world of little farms, and shady mills,—
Of fields, and water-meadows fair,
Upon some sad and shadowy day
When all the skies are overcast and grey,
And climb up through the gloomy air,
And ever hurry higher still, and higher,
Till underneath you lies a far-flung shire
All sober-hued beneath the ceiling pale
Of crawling clouds, whose barrier soon you reach,
And through their clammy vapours swiftly sail,
Their chill defences hoping soon to breach—
To see no skies above, no ground below,
And in that nothingness toss to and fro
Is no sweet moment—will it never cease?—
Climbing and diving, thrown from side to side,—
All suddenly there comes a sense of peace
And o'er a wondrous scenery we glide.
O! what a splendour! Deep the cloudless blue
Whose sparkling azure has a gorgeous hue
On earth you know not—flaming bright the sun
Which shines upon a landscape, snowy-white
With all its power of unsullied light!
Deep in the shadowy valleys do we run,
And then above the towering summits soar,
And see for far-thrown miles yet, more and more,
Great mountain-ranges, rolling, white and soft,
With shadowy passes, cool, and huge, and dim,
Where, surely, angels wander as they hymn
Their happy songs, which wing their way aloft
To Him who made the sun—the azure deep—
And all this gleaming land of peace and sleep.
Alone I wander o'er this virgin land—
All, all for me—below the ploughman plods
Along his furrows, and with restless hand
The sower hurls his seed among the clods—
They cannot see the sun—grey is their sky,—
I see the sun—the heaven's blue—on high!
But I am human, and must e'en descend;
I bid farewell to all this lovely scene,
And plunge deep in a cloud—When will it end,
This hazy voyage?—See! the chequered green,
The scattered farmsteads, and the quiet sea,
Sunless and dim, come hurrying up to me.

France, 1917.

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