The Dawn Patrol, and other poems of an aviator Part 1

The Dawn Patrol, and other poems of an aviator.

by Paul Bewsher.

_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 anch.o.r.ed s.h.i.+ps, which lie In cl.u.s.tered company, And seem as they are yet fast bound by sleep, Although the day has long begun to peep, With red-inflamed 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 s.p.a.ce.

Then do I feel with G.o.d 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 G.o.d'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 mult.i.tudes below; Which, like the ants, in feverish stream From place to place move to and fro!

Like ants they work: like ants they fight, a.s.suming blindly they are right.

Soon their existence I forget, In joy that on these flas.h.i.+ng 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 s.h.i.+nes 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 G.o.d who lets me fly In sweet seclusion through the sky!

_France, 1917._

_The Crash_

The rich, red blood Doth stain the fair, green gra.s.s, 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 gra.s.s, And watched the languid hours pa.s.s; 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 gra.s.s 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 G.o.d who brings this bliss!

Oh! what a happiness is this-- To lie upon the gra.s.s 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 G.o.d's sweet sympathy divine, ...

May these two days now swiftly pa.s.s!"

He laughed upon the sunlit gra.s.s.

The days have pa.s.sed, but pa.s.sed, 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 G.o.d! 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_