The power and drive beneath me now are above the power of kings, It's mine the word that lets her loose and in my ear she sings-- "Mark now the way I sport and play with the rising hunted sea, Across my grain in cold disdain their ranks are hurled at me; But down my wake is a foam-white lake, the remnant of their line, That broke and died beneath my pride--your foemen, man, and mine." The perfect tapered hull below is a dream of line and curve, An artist's vision in steel and bronze for gods and men to serve. If ever a statue came to life, you quivering slender thing, It ought to be you--my racing girl--as the Amazon song you sing. * * * * * Down the valley and up the slope we run from scent to view. "Steady, you villain--you know too much--I'm not so wild as you; You'll get me cursed if you catch him first--there's at least a mile to go, So swallow your pride and ease your stride, and take your fences slow. Your high-pricked ears as the jump appears are comforting things to see; Your easy gallop and bending neck are signals flying to me. You wouldn't refuse if it was wire with calthrops down in front, And there we are with a foot to spare--you best of all the Hunt!" Great sloping shoulders galloping strong, and a yard of floating tail, A fine old Irish gentleman, and a Hampshire post-and-rail. * * * * * The sun on the fields a mile below is glinting off the grass That slides along like a rolling map as under the clouds I pass. The early shadows of byre and hedge are dwindling dark below As up the stair of the morning air on my idle wheels I go,-- Nothing to do but let her alone--she's flying herself to-day; Unless I chuck her about a bit--there isn't a bump or sway. So _there's_ a bank at ninety-five--and here's a spin and a spiral dive, And here we are again. And _that's_ a roll and twist around, and that's the sky and there's the ground, And I and the aeroplane Are doing a glide, but upside down, and that's a village and that's a town-- And now we're rolling back. And _this_ is the way we climb and stall and sit up and beg on nothing at all, The wires and strainers slack. And now we'll try and be good some more, and open the throttle and hear her roar And steer for London Town. For there never a pilot yet was born who flew a machine on a frosty morn But started stunting soon, To feel if his wires were really there, or whether he flew on ice or air, Or whether his hands were gloved or bare, Or he sat in a free balloon. IN THE MORNING IN THE MORNING.