 section one of the dawn patrol and other poems of an aviator this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by Bruce Kachuk the dawn patrol and other poems of an aviator by Paul Boucher 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 newborn son 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 inflamed high 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 see my 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 earthbound planes as though I sang among the happy saints with many a holy thrill as though the glowing sun where God's bright throne my flight is done I cross the line of foam that breaks around a town of gray 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 Luke say LeBain 1917 end of section one the dawn patrol section two of the dawn patrol and other poems of an aviator by Paul Boucher this LibriVox recording is in the public domain the joy of flying when heavy on my tired mind the world and worldly things do way 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 groveling 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 quarrel seem poor crawling multitudes below which like the ants in feverish dream 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 enjoy that on these flashing wings I cleave the skies oh let them fret now know I why the skylark sings untrammeled in the boundless air for mine it is his bliss to share now do I mount a billowy cloud now do I sail low or a hill and with a seagull 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 newborn 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 as the god who lets me fly in sweet seclusion through the sky France 1917 end of section two the joy of flying section three of the dawn patrol and other poems of an aviator by Paul Boucher this LibriVox recording is in the public domain the crash the rich red blood that stained the fair green grass and daisies white in generous flood the sun drows day for me is darkest night oh wreck of splintered wood and twisted wire what blind unmeasured hatred you inspire because yours was the power that life to end of him who was my friend this morning we lay upon the grass and watch the language hours pass a lock deep in the skies blue sea sang ecstasies to him and me and with the daisies did he play as on the waving grass we lay and made a little daisy chain to bring his childhood back again and while he watched the clouds above he drifted into thoughts of love he said I know why Skylark sing because they love and it is spring and if I had a voice as they so would I sing this golden may because I love and loved am I and when I wonder through the sky I wish I had a Skylark's voice and with such singing could rejoice oh happy happy are these days my heart is full of deep felt praise and thanks to God who brings this bliss oh what a happiness is this to lie upon the grass and know in two short days that I shall go and see my love's fair face again and wonder in some flowery lane forgetting all the world around and only knowing I have found a spring enchantment which is mine through God's sweet sympathy divine may these two days now swiftly pass he laughed upon the sunlit grass the days have passed but past alas how slow see down the road a sad procession go oh hear the wailing music moan why why such grief am I to know dear God I wish I were alone for by the grave a girl with streaming eyes does make mine dim while high among the sunny springtime skies the larks still him France 1917 end of section three the crash section four of the dawn patrol and other poems of an aviator by Paul Boucher this LibriVox recording is in the public domain the night raid around me broods the dim mysterious night starlet and still no whisper comes across the plane asleep beneath the breezes light which scarcely stir the growing grain slow chimes the quiet midnight hour in some unseen and distant tower while round me broods the vague mysterious night starlet and cool and still and I must desecrate this silent time of drowsy dreams on mighty wings towards the sky towards the stars I have to climb and or the sleeping country fly and such far echoing clamor make that all the villages must wake so must I desecrate this quiet time of soft and drowsy dreams the hour comes soon must I say farewell to this fair earth then to my little room I go where I perhaps no more shall dwell shall I return the gods but no for chance again I shall not sleep on that white bed in silence deep for soon the hour comes to say farewell to this fair friendly earth I stand there long before into the gloom I take my way there are the pictures of my friends and all the treasures of my room on which my lamp soft radiance sends and long with lingering gaze I look upon each much beloved book I stand and dream before into the gloom I sadly take my way and now I gain the field whence I must part upon my quest my Pegasus of wood and steel is ready straining at the start the governor is at the wheel and with an ever-growing roar across the hidden fields we saw so with one envious look from earth I part upon my midnight quest beneath me lies the sleeping countryside hazy and dim and here and there a little gleam like stars upon the heavens wide speaks of some rich who cannot dream but on his bed all night must toss and hear me as I pass across in droning flight above the countryside hazy and huge and dim and in the great blue night I ever rise towards the stars as to the hostile lands I sail high in the dark and cloudless skies whose gloom are gloomy wings doth fail beneath a scare scene ribbon shows where through the woods a river flows as in the shadowy night I ever rise towards the scattered stars now high above wars frontiers do I sit above the lines great lights like flowers rise and fall on either side red flashes spit hot death at those poor souls which crawl on secret errands oh how grim must be that midnight slaughter dim and happy am I that so high I sit above those cruel lines each man beneath me now detests my race with iron hate each tiny light I see must shine upon some grim unfriendly face who curses England's name and mine and would be glad if both were gone but steadily must I fly on though every soul beneath me loads my race with stern unceasing hate I see a far flung city all ablaze with jeweled lamps I trace its keys its roads its squares and all its intermingled ways and as I wonder how it dares to flaunt itself the city dies and in an utter darkness lies for I have terrified that town ablaze with twinkling jeweled lamps but see the furnace with its ruddy breath which I must wreck the searchlights sweep across the sky long fingered ministers of death I look deep in their cold blue eye incessant shells with blinding light show every wire clear and white there is the furnace with its ruddy breath which I must wreck it lies beneath my time has come at last to do my work I wait oh will you never stop your fearful shells that burst so fast and then I hear destruction drop behind my back as I release such fearful death with such great ease burst on you shells my time has come at last to do my deadly work then do I turn and hurry swiftly back towards my home I gladly leave that place behind no more I hear the shrapnel's crack no more my eyes the searchlights blind I cross the lines with lightning breast and sail into the friendly West how glad am I to hurry swiftly back towards my peaceful home I reach the field and then I softly land my work is or I leave my heart and panting steed and clasp a comrade's outstretched hand and with him to my bedroom speed then over steaming beakers set the night's fierce menace soon forget how great a welcome waits me when I land when all my work is or but here I search shy sleep on my white bed I greet the dawn and think with heart weighed down with grief how cruel this dawn to those whose dead lie shattered torn whom like a thief at darkest midnight I have slain poor unknown victims reel my pain what widows orphans sweet hearts see they're dead this cruel hopeless dawn France 1917 end of section four the night raid section five of the dawn patrol and other poems of an aviator by Paul Boucher this LibriVox recording is in the public domain despair the long and tedious months move slowly by and February's chill has fled away before the gales of March and now in they have died upon the peaceful April sky and still I sadly wander still I sigh and all the splendor of each springtime day is died for me one melancholy gray and all its beauty can but make me cry for thou art silence oh far distant friend and not one word has come to cheer my heart through these sad months which seem to have no end so distant seems the day which bad us part oh speak dear fair haired angel spring has smiled and I despair a broken hearted child France 1917 end of section five despair section six of the dawn patrol and other poems of an aviator by Paul Boucher this LibriVox recording is in the public domain the horrors of flying the day is cold the wind is strong and through the sky great cloud banks throng while swaths of snow lie on the ground or which I walk without a sound but I have vowed to fly today though winds are fierce and clouds are gray 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 taught 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 scrutinize 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 today 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 hot 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 bridges 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 or 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 wins 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 tossed 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 fears 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 accursed 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 wearing clock when friendedly it runs amuck 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 oh how slow towards the clouds I seem to go and then ambition gains its mark at last the little finger or the point has passed I can descend again with conscience clear and end this battle with persistent fear the engines clamor 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 harbor 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 be sprinkled 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 gray I only wish my room to gain and in some book forget my pain and lose myself in fancy dreams across tetanus golden streams France 1917 end of section six the horrors of flying section seven of the dawn patrol and other poems of an aviator by paul boucher this livery box recording is in the public domain dreams of autumn went through the heat of some long afternoon in blazing August on the grass I lie and watch the white clouds move across the sky on whose azure is faintly etched the moon that when the evening deepens will be soon the brightest figure of those hosts on high my heart is discontented and I sigh for autumn and its vapors till I swoon upon the vision of October days in dreaming London when each mighty tree sheds daily more brown showers through the haze which lends each street romance and mystery when pallid silver sunshine only gleams on that gray lover's city of sweet dreams I love grain 1916 end of section seven dreams of autumn section eight of the dawn patrol and other poems of an aviator by paul boucher this livery box recording is in the public domain to Carlton berry killed in an aeroplane accident July 1916 it was thy will oh god and so he died for 17 sweet years he was a child upon whose grace thy loving kindness smiled for he was clean and full of youthful pride and when his years drew on then thou denied that he by man's estate should be defiled and so thou cost him to thy presence mild to be with thee forever by thy side nor is he dead he lives in three great spheres his soul is with thee in thy home above his influence with friends of former years his memory with those he used to love he is an emblem of that trinity with whom he lives in happy ecstasy I love grain 1916 end of section eight to Carlton berry section nine of the dawn patrol and other poems of an aviator by paul boucher this livery box recording is in the public domain London in May two long full years have passed since I have smelled sweet London in this happy month of May last year relentless war bore me away to Imbross Isle where six sad months I dwelt beneath a burning sun nor ever felt one breath of gentle spring blow or the bay between whose sun dried hills so long I lay a restless captive now has fortune dealt more kindly with me once again I know the drowsy langur of the afternoons the soft white clouds the May trees whiter snow the star bound evenings and the ivory moons my heart dear god leaps up till it is pain with thanks to thee that I am here again London end of section nine London in May section 10 of the dawn patrol and other poems of an aviator by paul boucher this livery box recording is in the public domain a fallen leaf when death has crossed my name from out the role of dreaming children serving in this war and with these earthly eyes I gaze no more upon sweet England's grace perhaps my soul will visit streets done which I used to stroll at sunset charmed dusks when London's roar like ebbing surf on some Atlantic shore would trance the year then may I hear no toll of heavy bells to burden all the air with tuneless grief for happy will I be what place on earth could ever be more fair than God's own presence more not then for me nor right I pray he gave upon my Claude his life to England but his soul to God I love Sheppy 1917 end of section 10 a fallen leaf section 11 of the dawn patrol and other poems of an aviator by paul boucher this livery box recording is in the public domain the star I stood one azure dusk in old osir before the gray cathedrals towering height and in the eastern darkness very fair I saw a little star that twinkled how small it looked beside the mighty pile whose stone was rosy with the western glow a little star I pondered for a while and then the solemn truth began to know that tiny star was some enormous fear the great cathedral was anatomy so often when great trouble looms so near that God shines in our minds but distantly if we but thought our grief would seem so small that we would see that God's great love was all France 1917 end of section 11 the star section 12 of the dawn patrol and other poems of an aviator by paul boucher this livery box recording is in the public domain islington here slow decay with creeping finger peels the yellow plaster from the grimy walls like lepros lichen day by day which falls and day by day more rotting stone reveals here harrowed mournful squares through which their steels no cheerful music or the heedless calls of laughing children and the smoke which crawls across the sky the heavy silence seals lean blackened trees stretch up their withered bows behind the rusty railings prison bound in vain they seek the summer sunlight's gold in which their long dead fathers used to drowse for pallid terraces lie far around in gloomy sadness ever growing old o'chile ban 1917 end of section 12 islington section 13 of the dawn patrol and other poems of an aviator by paul boucher this livery box recording is in the public domain the country beautiful i love the little daisies on the lawn which contemplate with wide and placid eyes the blue and white enamel of the skies the larks which sing their matinsong at dawn high or the earth and see the new day born all stained with amethyst and amber dies i love the shadowy woodlands hidden prize of fragrant violets which the dewy mourn doth open gently underneath the trees to cast a lucive perfume on each hour the waving clover full of drowsy bees that take their murmurous way from flower to flower who could but think deep in some sun flecked glade how god must love these things that he has made east church 1916 end of section 13 the country beautiful section 14 of the dawn patrol and other poems of an aviator by paul boucher this livery box recording is in the public domain chelsea how many of those youths who consecrate their lives to art and worship at her shrine and sacrifice their early hours and late in serving her exacting whims divine have gathered in old chelsea's shaded peace whose faint elusive charm and gentle airs bring inspiration fresh and sweet release from troubles haunting shapes and goblin cares oh tree embowered hamlet whose domain sleeps in the arms of london quietly whose sparrow haunted roads and squares serene from all the stress of life seem ever-free oh are you more than just a passing dream beside the city's slim and lovely stream luke say laban 1917 end of section 14 chelsea section 15 of the dawn patrol and other poems of an aviator by paul boucher this livery box recording is in the public domain k l h died of wounds received at the dardanelles where stern gray busts of gods and heroes old frown down upon the corridors chill stone on which the sunbeams amber pale is thrown from leaf fringed windows one of quiet mold gazed long at those white chronicles which told of honors that the stately school had known he read the names and wondered if his own would ever grace the walls in letters bold he knew not that he for the school would gain a greater honor with a greater price that no long years of work but bitter pain and his rich life he was to sacrifice not in a university's gray piece but on the hilly sunbaked cursonese hms manica dardanelles 1915 end of section 15 k l h section 16 of the dawn patrol and other poems of an aviator by paul boucher this livery box recording is in the public domain the fringe of heaven now have i left the world and all its tears and high above the sunny cloud banks fly alone in all this vast and lonely sky this limpid space in which the myriad spheres go thundering on whose song god only hears high in his heavens ah how small see my and yet i know he hears my little cry down there among mankind's cruel jest and sneers and i forget the grief which i have known and i forgive the mockers and their and in this mighty solitude alone i taste the joys of everlasting rest which i shall know when i have passed away to live in heavens never fading day written in the air end of section 16 the fringe of heaven section 17 of the dawn patrol and other poems of an aviator by paul boucher this livery box recording is in the public domain three treelets colors how bright is earth's rich gown non but an airman knows yellow and green and brown how bright is earth's rich gown i see as i gaze down its purple cream and rose how bright is earth's rich gown non but an airman knows the sea sad is the lonely sea so vast and smooth and gray it stretches far from me sad is the lonely sea its cheerful colors flee before the fading day sad is the lonely sea so vast and smooth and gray disillusion you mortal see the sky i only see the ground as through the air i fly you mortal see the sky and yet with envy sigh because to earth you're bound you mortals see the sky i only see the ground written in the air end of section 17 three treelets section 18 of the dawn patrol and other poems of an aviator by paul boucher this livery box recording is in the public domain cloud thoughts above the clouds i sail above the clouds and wish my mind above its clouds could climb as well and leave behind the world and all its crowds and ever dwell in such a calm and limpid solitude with near a breath unkind or harsh or rude to break the spell with near a thought to drive away the golden splendor of the day alone and lost beneath the tranquil blue my god with you written in an aeroplane end of section 18 cloud thoughts section 19 of the dawn patrol and other poems of an aviator by paul boucher this livery box recording is in the public domain autumn regrets that i work heats and with a golden pen could for all time preserve these golden days in rich and glowing verse for poorer men who felt their wonder but could only gaze with silent joy upon sweet autumn's face and not record in any wise its grace alas but i am even dumb as they i cannot bid the fleeting hour stay nor chain one moment on a page's space that i were greek then with a haunting air of murmur soft and swelling grand refrains would i express my love of autumn fair with all its wealth of harvest and warm rains and with fantastic melodies inspire a memory of each mad sunset's fire in which the day goes slowly to its death as through the fragrant woods dim evening's breath doth soothe to sleep the drowsy songbird's choir that i were carol then september's gold would i store up in painted treasuries that when the world seemed gray i could behold its blazing color with sweet memories and each elusive color would be mine that decorates these afternoons benign ah then i could enshrine each fleeting hue which dies the woodland and enslave the blue of sky and haze with genius divine how sad these wishes when i have no art of poetry or music or of brush with which to calm the swelling of my heart by capturing the misty country's hush in muted violins i cannot hymn the shadowy silence of the cops's dim nor can i paint september's sky crowned hills gone then the wonder which my vision fills when all the earth is bound by winter grim west gate end of section 19 autumn regrets section 20 of the dawn patrol and other poems of an aviator by paul boucher this livery box recording is in the public domain to hilda on her 17th birthday now has rich time brought you a gift of gold a long sweet year which you can shape at will and deck with roses warm or with the chill and heartless lilies god gives strength to mold our days and lives with fingers firm and bold and make them noble straight and clean from ill though few are willing and their gears they fill with dross which they regret when they are old what splendid hours of your life are these when youth and childhood wonder hand in hand and give you freely all which best can please laughter and friends and dreams of fairyland more not the seasons passed with useless tears but greet the pleasure of the coming years france 1917 end of section 20 to hilda on her 17th birthday section 21 of the dawn patrol and other poems of an aviator by paul boucher this livery box recording is in the public domain clouds to strange to leave this world of woods and hills this world of little farms and shady mills of fields and water meadows fair upon some sad and shadowy day when all the skies are overcast and gray and climb up through the gloomy air and ever hurry higher still and higher till underneath you lies a far flung shire all sober hewed beneath the ceiling pale of crawling clouds whose barrier soon you reach and through their clammy vapors swiftly sail their chill defenses hoping soon to breach to see no skies above no ground below and in that nothingness tossed to and fro is no sweet moment will it never cease climbing and diving thrown from side to side all suddenly there comes a sense of peace and or a wondrous scenery we glide oh what a splendor deep the cloudless blue whose sparkling azure has a gorgeous hue on earth you know not flaming bright the sun which shines upon a landscape snowy white with all its power of unsullied light deep in the shadowy valleys do we run and then above the towering summits soar and see for far-thrown miles yet more and more great mountain ranges rolling white and soft with shadowy passes cool and huge and dim where surely angels wonder as they hymn their happy songs which wing their way aloft to him who made the sun the azure deep and all this gleaming land of peace and sleep alone i wonder or this virgin land all all for me below the plowman plods along his furrows and with restless hand the sower hurls his seed among the clods they cannot see the sun gray is their sky i see the sun the heavens blue on high but i am human and must he descend i bid farewell to all this lovely scene and plunge deep in a cloud when will it end this hazy voyage see the checkered green the scattered farmsteads and the quiet sea sunless and dim come hurrying up to me france 1917 end of section 21 clouds end of the dawn patrol and other poems of an aviator by paul boucher