The day is cold; the wind is strong; And through the sky great cloud-banks throng, While swathes of snow lie on the ground O'er which I walk without a sound, But I have vowed to fly to-day Though winds are fierce, and clouds are grey. My aeroplane is on the field; So I must fly--my fate is sealed, And no excuses can I make; Within its back my place I take. I strap myself inside the seat And press the rudder with my feet, And hold the wheel with nervous grip And gaze around my little ship-- For on its wire-rigging taut Depends my life--which will be short If it should fail me in the air; Swift then my fall, and short my prayer, And these my wings would be my pyre-- So well I scrutinise each wire! Then out across the field I go In shaking progress,--noisy--slow; And turn, until the wind I face, Then do I look around a space; For fear to-day is at my heart And nervously I fear to start. The field is clear--the skies are bare-- Mine is the 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