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.