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 accursd 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.