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.