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The Joy of Flying
by Paul BewsherWhen 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.