: The Dawn Patrol and other poems of an aviator by Bewsher Paul - World War 1914-1918 Poetry; Aeronautics Poetry

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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

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