Read Ebook: The Dawn Patrol and other poems of an aviator by Bewsher Paul

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And still I sadly wander, still I sigh, And all the splendour of each Springtime day Is dyed, for me, one melancholy grey, And all its beauty can but make me cry.

For thou art silent, Oh! far distant friend, And not one word has come to cheer my heart Through these sad months, which seem to have no end, So distant seems the day which bade us part! Oh speak! dear fair-haired angel! Spring has smiled, And I despair--a broken-hearted child.

FRANCE, 1917.

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 Spent in some sunny field of flowers When my half-opened eyes would look On some old dream-inspiring book, And not on this accurs?d 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.

When through the heat of some long afternoon In blazing August, on the grass I lie, And watch the white clouds move across the sky, On whose azure is faintly etched the moon, That, when the evening deepens, will be soon The brightest figure of those hosts on high, My heart is discontented, and I sigh, For Autumn and its vapours; till I swoon

Upon the vision of October days In dreaming London, when each mighty tree Sheds daily more brown showers through the haze, Which lends each street Romance and Mystery-- When pallid silver Sunshine only gleams On that grey Lovers' City of Sweet Dreams.

KILLED IN AN AEROPLANE ACCIDENT, JULY, 1916

It was Thy will, O God. And so he died! For seventeen sweet years he was a child Upon whose grace Thy loving-kindness smiled, For he was clean, and full of youthful pride; And, when his years drew on, then Thou denied That he by man's estate should be defiled, And so Thou call'st him to Thy presence mild To be with Thee for ever, by Thy side.

Nor is he dead! He lives in three great spheres. His soul is with Thee in Thy home above: His influence,--with friends of former years: His memory with those he used to love. He is an emblem of that Trinity With whom he lives in happy ecstasy.

Two long, full years have passed since I have smelt Sweet London in this happy month of May! Last year relentless War bore me away To Imbros Isle, where six sad months I dwelt Beneath a burning sun--nor ever felt One breath of gentle Spring blow o'er the bay Between whose sun-dried hills so long I lay A restless captive. Now has Fortune dealt

More kindly with me: once again I know The drowsy languor of the afternoons: The soft white clouds: the may-tree's whiter snow: The star-bound evenings, and the ivory moons. My heart, dear God! leaps up till it is pain With thanks to Thee that I am here again.

When Death has crossed my name from out the roll Of dreaming children serving in this War; And with these earthly eyes I gaze no more Upon sweet England's grace--perhaps my soul Will visit streets down which I used to stroll At sunset-charm?d dusks, when London's roar Like ebbing surf on some Atlantic shore Would trance the ear. Then may I hear no toll

I stood, one azure dusk, in old Auxerre Before the grey Cathedral's towering height, And in the Eastern darkness, very fair I saw a little star that twinkled bright; How small it looked beside the mighty pile, Whose stone was rosy with the Western glow-- A little star--I pondered for a while, And then the solemn truth began to know.

That tiny star was some enormous sphere, The great cathedral was an atomy-- So often when grey trouble looms so near That God shines in our minds but distantly,-- If we but thought, our grief would seem so small That we would see that God's great love was all.

Here slow decay with creeping finger peels The yellow plaster from the grimy walls, Like leprous lichen, day by day which falls, And, day by day, more rotting stone reveals! Here are old mournful squares through which there steals No cheerful music, or the heedless calls Of laughing children; and the smoke, which crawls Across the sky, the heavy silence seals!

Lean, blackened trees stretch up their withered boughs Behind the rusty railings, prison-bound, In vain they seek the summer sunlight's gold In which their long-dead fathers used to drowse: For pallid terraces lie far around, In gloomy sadness ever growing old.

I love the little daisies on the lawn Which contemplate with wide and placid eyes The blue and white enamel of the skies-- The larks which sing their mattin-song at dawn, High o'er the earth, and see the new Day born, All stained with amethyst and amber dyes. I love the shadowy woodland's hidden prize Of fragrant violets, which the dewy morn

Doth open gently underneath the trees To cast elusive perfume on each hour-- The waving clover, full of drowsy bees, That take their murmurous way from flower to flower. Who could but think--deep in some sun-flecked glade-- How God must love these things that He has made?

How many of those youths who consecrate Their lives to art, and worship at her shrine, And sacrifice their early hours and late In serving her exacting whims divine Have gathered in old Chelsea's shaded peace, Whose faint, elusive charm, and gentle airs, Bring inspiration fresh, and sweet release From Trouble's haunting shapes and goblin cares?

O! tree-embowered hamlet, whose demesne Sleeps in the arms of London quietly, Whose sparrow-haunted roads, and squares serene, From all the stress of life seem ever free-- O! are you more than just a passing dream Beside the city's slim and lovely stream?

DIED OF WOUNDS RECEIVED AT THE DARDANELLES.

Where stern grey busts of gods and heroes old Frown down upon the corridors' chill stone, On which the sunbeam's amber pale is thrown From leaf-fringed windows, one of quiet mould Gazed long at those white chronicles which told Of honours that the stately School had known. He read the names: and wondered if his own Would ever grace the walls in letters bold.

He knew not that he for the School would gain A greater honour with a greater price-- That, no long years of work, but bitter pain And his rich life, he was to sacrifice-- Not in a University's grey peace, But on the hilly sun-baked Chersonese.

Now have I left the world and all its tears, And high above the sunny cloud-banks fly, Alone in all this vast and lonely sky-- This limpid space in which the myriad spheres Go thundering on, whose song God only hears High in his heavens. Ah! how small seem I, And yet I know he hears my little cry Down there among Mankind's cruel jest and sneers.

And I forget the grief which I have known, And I forgive the mockers and their jest, And in this mightly solitude alone, I taste the joys of everlasting rest, Which I shall know when I have passed away To live in Heaven's never-fading day.

COLOURS.

How bright is Earth's rich gown None but an Airman knows Yellow, and green, and brown-- How bright is Earth's rich gown! I see, as I gaze down, Its purple, cream, and rose. How bright is Earth's rich gown None but an Airman knows!

THE SEA.

Sad is the lonely sea-- So vast, and smooth, and grey It stretches far from me. Sad is the lonely sea! Its cheerful colours flee Before the fading day. Sad is the lonely sea So vast, and smooth, and grey!

DISILLUSION.

Above the clouds I sail, above the clouds, And wish my 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!

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.

WESTGATE.

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.

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