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diff --git a/35996-8.txt b/35996-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1480282 --- /dev/null +++ b/35996-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1457 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Dawn Patrol, and other poems of an +aviator, by Paul Bewsher + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Dawn Patrol, and other poems of an aviator + +Author: Paul Bewsher + +Release Date: April 30, 2011 [EBook #35996] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DAWN PATROL *** + + + + +Produced by David E. Brown, Bryan Ness and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) + + + + + + + + + + The Dawn Patrol + And other Poems of an Aviator + + PAUL BEWSHER, R.N.A.S., D.S.C. + + + "A new domain has been won for poetry by the war--that of the air. This + is of greater importance than the bare statement suggests.... 'The Dawn + Patrol' marks so notable a departure in English literature that it will + in after years be eagerly sought by collectors.... Mr. Bewsher's most + considerable triumph is to have been the first airman-poet to regard + humanity from the detached standpoint of the sky."--_Daily Graphic._ + + "The fable of Pegasus is come true.... Mr Bewsher never strains for + effect.... The strongest impression his poems leave is of a sincere and + ingenuous nature devoted to duty, but of keen sensibilities."--_The + Times._ + + + LONDON, W.C. 1: ERSKINE MACDONALD, LTD. + + Second Impression: One Shilling and Sixpence net. + + + + + THE DAWN PATROL + + Paul Bewsher, R.N.A.S. + + + + + _To My Father; + My Best Friend, + My Best Critic._ + _P.B._ + + SEPT., 1917. + + + + + The Dawn Patrol + And Other Poems of an Aviator + + By + PAUL BEWSHER, R.N.A.S. + + + ERSKINE MACDONALD, LTD., + MALORY HOUSE, FEATHERSTONE + BUILDINGS, LONDON, W.C. 1 + + _All rights reserved._ + + _Copyright in the United States of America by + Erskine MacDonald, Ltd._ + + _First Published November, 1917._ + _Second Impression, February, 1918._ + + Printed by Harrison, Jehring & Co., Ltd., 11-15, Emerald St. W.C. 1. + + + + +CONTENTS + + + PAGE + + THE DAWN PATROL 7 + + THE JOY OF FLYING 9 + + THE CRASH 11 + + THE NIGHT RAID 13 + + DESPAIR 18 + + THE HORRORS OF FLYING 19 + + DREAMS OF AUTUMN 24 + + TO CARLTON BERRY 25 + + LONDON IN MAY 26 + + A FALLEN LEAF 27 + + THE STAR 28 + + ISLINGTON 29 + + THE COUNTRY BEAUTIFUL 30 + + CHELSEA 31 + + K. L. H. 32 + + THE FRINGE OF HEAVEN 33 + + THREE TRIOLETS 34 + + CLOUD THOUGHTS 35 + + AUTUMN REGRETS 36 + + TO HILDA 38 + + CLOUDS 39 + + + + +_The Dawn Patrol_ + + + Sometimes I fly at dawn above the sea, + Where, underneath, the restless waters flow-- + Silver, and cold, and slow. + Dim in the East there burns a new-born sun, + Whose rosy gleams along the ripples run, + Save where the mist droops low, + Hiding the level loneliness from me. + + And now appears beneath the milk-white haze + A little fleet of anchored ships, which lie + In clustered company, + And seem as they are yet fast bound by sleep, + Although the day has long begun to peep, + With red-inflamèd eye, + Along the still, deserted ocean ways. + + 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_ + + + The rich, red blood + Doth stain the fair, green grass, and daisies white + In generous flood ... + This sun-drowsed day for me is darkest night. + O! wreck of splintered wood and twisted wire, + What blind, unmeasured hatred you inspire + Because yours was the power that life to end ... + Of him, who was my friend! + + This morn we lay upon the grass, + And watched the languid hours pass; + A lark, deep in the sky's blue sea, + Sang ecstasies to him and me. + + And with the daisies did he play, + As on the waving grass we lay, + And made a little daisy chain + To bring his childhood back again. + + And while he watched the clouds above + He drifted into thoughts of love. + He said, "I know why skylarks sing-- + Because they love, and it is Spring. + + And if I had a voice as they, + So would I sing this golden May, + Because I love, and loved am I, + And when I wander through the sky, + + I wish I had a skylark's voice, + And with such singing could rejoice. + Oh, happy, happy, are these days! + My heart is full of deep-felt praise, + + And thanks to God who brings this bliss! + Oh! what a happiness is this-- + To lie upon the grass and know + In two short days that I shall go + + And see my Love's fair face again, + And wander in some flowery lane, + Forgetting all the world around, + And only knowing I have found + + A Spring enchantment, which is mine + Through God's sweet sympathy divine, ... + May these two days now swiftly pass!" + He laughed upon the sunlit grass. + + The days have passed, but passed, alas! how slow! + See down the road a sad procession go! + Oh! hear the wailing music moan! + Why? Why such grief am I to know? + Dear God! I wish I were alone. + For by the grave a girl with streaming eyes + Doth make mine dim. + While high among the sunny springtime skies, + The larks still hymn. + + _France, 1917._ + + + + +_The Night Raid_ + + + Around me broods the dim, mysterious Night, + Star-lit and still. + No whisper comes across the Plain, + Asleep beneath the breezes light, + Which scarcely stir the growing grain. + Slow chimes the quiet midnight hour + In some unseen and distant tower, + While round me broods the vague, mysterious Night, + Star-lit, and cool, and still. + + And I must desecrate this silent time + Of drowsy dreams! + On mighty wings towards the sky, + Towards the stars, I have to climb + And o'er the sleeping country fly, + And such far-echoing clamour make + That all the villages must wake. + So must I desecrate this quiet time + Of soft and drowsy dreams! + + The hour comes ... soon must I say farewell + To this fair earth. + Then to my little room I go + Where I perhaps no more shall dwell. + Shall I return?--The Gods but know. + Perchance again I shall not sleep + On that white bed in silence deep. + For soon the hour comes to say farewell + To this fair, friendly earth. + + I stand there long, before into the gloom + I take my way. + There are the pictures of my friends + And all the treasures of my room + On which my lamp soft radiance sends. + And long with lingering gaze I look + Upon each much belovèd book. + I stand, and dream--before into the gloom + I sadly take my way. + + And now I gain the field whence I must part + Upon my quest. + My Pegasus of wood and steel + Is ready straining at the start. + The governor is at the wheel-- + And, with an ever-growing roar, + Across the hidden fields we soar. + So, with one envious look from Earth I part + Upon my midnight quest. + + Beneath me lies the sleeping countryside + Hazy and dim, + And here and there a little gleam, + Like stars upon the heavens wide, + Speaks of some wretch who cannot dream-- + But on his bed all night must toss + And hear me as I pass across, + In droning flight above the countryside, + Hazy, and huge, and dim. + + And in the great blue night I ever rise + Towards the stars, + As to the hostile lands I sail + High in the dark and cloudless skies + Whose gloom our gloomy wings doth veil. + Beneath, a scarce-seen ribbon shows + Where through the woods a river flows, + As in the shadowy night I ever rise + Towards the scattered stars. + + Now high above War's frontiers do I sit-- + Above the lines. + Great lights, like flowers, rise and fall: + On either side red flashes spit + Hot death at those poor souls which crawl + On secret errands. O, how grim + Must be that midnight slaughter dim! + And happy am I that so high I sit + Above those cruel lines! + + Each man beneath me now detests my race + With iron hate. + Each tiny light I see must shine + Upon some grim, unfriendly face, + Who curses England's name and mine, + And would be glad if both were gone-- + But steadily must I fly on, + Though every soul beneath me loathes my race + With stern, unceasing hate. + + I see a far-flung City all ablaze + With jewelled lamps: + I trace its quays, its roads, its squares, + And all its intermingled ways, + And, as I wonder how it dares + To flaunt itself,--the City dies, + And in an utter darkness lies, + For I have terrified that town ablaze + With twinkling, jewelled lamps. + + But, see!--the furnace with its ruddy breath + Which I must wreck! + The searchlights sweep across the sky-- + Long-fingered ministers of Death-- + I look deep in their cold blue eye, + Incessant shells with blinding light + Show every wire, clear and white! + There is the furnace with its ruddy breath + Which I must wreck;-- + + It lies beneath--my time has come at last + To do my work! + I wait--O! will you never stop + Your fearful shells, that burst so fast?-- + And then--I hear destruction drop + Behind my back as I release + Such fearful death with such great ease. + Burst on, you shells! My time has come at last + To do my deadly work. + + Then do I turn, and hurry swiftly back + Towards my home. + I gladly leave that place behind! + No more I hear the shrapnel's crack-- + No more my eyes the searchlights blind. + I cross the lines with lightening breast + And sail into the friendly West. + How glad am I to hurry swiftly back + Towards my peaceful home! + + I reach the field--and then I softly land. + My work is o'er! + I leave my hot and panting steed, + And clasp a comrade's outstretched hand, + And with him to my bedroom speed. + Then, over steaming beakers set, + The night's fierce menace soon forget. + How great a welcome waits me when I land-- + When all my work is o'er! + + But ere I search shy sleep on my white bed + I greet the dawn, + And think, with heart weighed down with grief, + How cruel this dawn to those whose dead + Lie shattered, torn--whom, like a thief + At darkest midnight, I have slain. + Poor, unknown victims!--real my pain! + What widows, orphans, sweethearts see their dead + This cruel, hopeless dawn? + + _France, 1917._ + + + + +_Despair_ + + + The long and tedious months move slowly by + And February's chill has fled away + Before the gales of March, and now e'en they + Have died upon the peaceful April sky: + 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 Horrors of Flying_ + + + 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 accursèd 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. + + _France, 1917._ + + + + +_Dreams of Autumn_ + + + 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. + + _Isle of Grain, 1916._ + + + + +_To Carlton Berry_ + +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. + + _Isle of Grain, 1916._ + + + + +_London in May_ + + + 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. + + _London._ + + + + +_A Fallen Leaf_ + + + 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-charmèd dusks, when London's roar + Like ebbing surf on some Atlantic shore + Would trance the ear. Then may I hear no toll + + Of heavy bells to burden all the air + With tuneless grief: for happy will I be!-- + What place on earth could ever be more fair + Than God's own presence?--Mourn not then for me, + Nor write, I pray, "_He gave_"--upon my clod-- + "_His life to England_," but "_his soul to God_." + + _Isle of Sheppey, 1917._ + + + + +_The Star_ + + + 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. + + _France, 1917._ + + + + +_Islington_ + + + 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. + + _Ochey-les-Bains, 1917._ + + + + +_The Country Beautiful_ + + + 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? + + _Eastchurch, 1916._ + + + + +_Chelsea_ + + + 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? + + _Luxeuil-les-Bains, 1917._ + + + + +_K.L.H._ + +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. + + _H.M.S. "Manica," + Dardanelles, 1915._ + + + + +_The Fringe of Heaven_ + + + 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. + + _Written in the Air._ + + + + +_Three Triolets_ + + +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. + + You mortals see the sky-- + I only see the ground, + As through the air I fly. + You mortals see the sky, + And yet with envy sigh + Because to earth you're bound! + You mortals see the sky-- + _I_ only see the ground! + + _Written in the Air._ + + + + +_Cloud Thoughts_ + + + 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! + + _Written in an Aeroplane._ + + + + +_Autumn Regrets_ + + + 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. + + How sad these wishes! When I have no art + Of poetry, or music, or of brush, + With which to calm the swelling of my heart + By capturing the misty country's hush + In muted violins; I cannot hymn + The shadowy silence of the copses dim; + Nor can I paint September's sky-crowned hills. + Gone then, the wonder which my vision fills, + When all the earth is bound by Winter grim! + + WESTGATE. + + + + +_To Hilda_: + +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. + + + + +_Clouds_ + + + 'Tis strange to leave this world of woods and hills, + This world of little farms, and shady mills,-- + Of fields, and water-meadows fair, + Upon some sad and shadowy day + When all the skies are overcast and grey, + And climb up through the gloomy air, + And ever hurry higher still, and higher, + Till underneath you lies a far-flung shire + All sober-hued beneath the ceiling pale + Of crawling clouds, whose barrier soon you reach, + And through their clammy vapours swiftly sail, + Their chill defences hoping soon to breach-- + To see no skies above, no ground below, + And in that nothingness toss to and fro + Is no sweet moment--will it never cease?-- + Climbing and diving, thrown from side to side,-- + All suddenly there comes a sense of peace + And o'er a wondrous scenery we glide. + O! what a splendour! Deep the cloudless blue + Whose sparkling azure has a gorgeous hue + On earth you know not--flaming bright the sun + Which shines upon a landscape, snowy-white + With all its power of unsullied light! + Deep in the shadowy valleys do we run, + And then above the towering summits soar, + And see for far-thrown miles yet, more and more, + Great mountain-ranges, rolling, white and soft, + With shadowy passes, cool, and huge, and dim, + Where, surely, angels wander as they hymn + Their happy songs, which wing their way aloft + To Him who made the sun--the azure deep-- + And all this gleaming land of peace and sleep. + Alone I wander o'er this virgin land-- + All, all for me--below the ploughman plods + Along his furrows, and with restless hand + The sower hurls his seed among the clods-- + They cannot see the sun--grey is their sky,-- + _I_ see the sun--the heaven's blue--on high! + But I am human, and must e'en descend; + I bid farewell to all this lovely scene, + And plunge deep in a cloud--When will it end, + This hazy voyage?--See! the chequered green, + The scattered farmsteads, and the quiet sea, + Sunless and dim, come hurrying up to me. + + _France, 1917._ + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Dawn Patrol, and other poems of an +aviator, by Paul Bewsher + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DAWN PATROL *** + +***** This file should be named 35996-8.txt or 35996-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/5/9/9/35996/ + +Produced by David E. 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