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-inflamd 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.