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_