THE AVIATORS
Theirs is the free unrutted tracts of air,
The clime of cloudland and of boundless space;
From grimy earth they soar to regions rare,
And meet the blue eternal face to face—
Above the clouds; the earth, a swallowed ball.
Lost in the gray abysses far below;
Biding the storm above the whirlwinds thrall,
The Aviators of the Allies go.
Theirs is the flight of eagles, and as they,
They swoop and drive their talons in the foe,
Then wheeling, strike again their crippled prey,
And send him crashing to the earth below.