The Dawn Patrol, and other poems of an aviator

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.