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 Accurs?D 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.