And the pigeons all alone,
Circling the dreamy domes
Of the Salute, there....
Why! look you! They fly so high,
That earth-eyes cannot see;
They lose all sight of lands;
They feel the boundless air—
Air of the universe;
And the little plans of men,
And the little lands of men,
Like stupid little maps,
Like little colored charts,
Spread out under their wings
So little and so brief....
Each nation for itself,
Each mortal for himself,
All working different ways,
Striving against each other,
Pulling away from each other,
Until some great Snarl comes,
And all are choked to death
By the tangle in their hands,
And the tangle in their minds.
The birds feel boundless air—
Air of the Universe,
Air of unbounded Life,
Freedom and liberty;
They see the first faint dawn
Of a Boundless Peoples’ soul,
Freed for a mighty world—
World-Race, World-Life, World-God.
And on the sun-pathed clouds,
That toss like high white seas,
The dauntless birds fly out,
Out to a rimless Space,
Out to the path of Worlds,
And the solemn ways of stars,
Where they glimpse God himself;
And like a precious message,
Heaven-indicated sign
Under their small sweet wings,
They hold our dream for us.
Then we take to the air....
Battalioned aeroplanes,
Squadrons of flying men,
Winged holy priests,
Winged lawyers and doctors,
Winged men and women,
Flying up from the earth
Into pure unmeasured air,
Where not a house can pry
With narrow stupid eyes,
And cramping stifling roof;
Where not a printed word
Sprays poison of old thought
Over the sky-cleansed Mind.
Where the clean squadrons fly,
Like soaring splendid birds,
Comes knowledge and buoyancy.
There is the liberty,
The freedom and the power,
Prescience and omniscience,
The Vision and the gift
And the prophecy of birds.
The American, tossing away the stub of cigarette, reflectively surveys the speaker.
American:
Strange how he talks,
This old Venetian man,
This Carver of Wood-angels,
Seeing the glorious planes
Charging over the world!
A child-like, passionate theme.
Strange how the Carver talks!—
So talked the flying men,
Victor Chapman himself,
Dark as a gypsy prince,
With mind so just and stern,
Exact and science-full;
Chapman, adventurer,
Into the enemy lines,
Gallant plane-fighter,
Bronze plume-spreader,
Wild wing-worker—
Once said a thing like that.
Pegoud, though such a man
Through all his fighting fame,
And such a soldier, too,
With duty in his eyes,
France alight in his face,
His body like a tool,
The spirit used and kept
Light and sharp as steel
To be used for the piercing of air,
Like lance darting at fate—
In one of his laughing moods
Pegoud said things like that....
Like eagles in their hoods,
Poised on their swooping planes,
The aviators know
Things not far off from that.
The solemn flying men,
The spear-eyed avions,
Whose radiant, soaring wings
Gild the blue summer air,
Who take the surf of clouds,
And thread the net of stars,
Emerging into Space,
Keen for new reckonings—
New delicate balancings,
Keen for new sciences
And new far beckonings.
They break all barriers,
Sweep all boundaries,
Surmount all mountains,
And soaring over seas
That have for countless years
Ensnared the minds of men
To barter and piracy—
They give the new air-path
To Peace and the interchange
Of mutual benefits.
Chapman, Pegoud, Gunymener—
They all said things like that,
They were too busy killing,
To make the thing come true;
(And others were busy killing
Chapman and Pegoud,)
So their soarings ended soon,
They folded their wings and slept....
But from their Grand Parliament,
Their high and scatheless Parliament,
Their steep-ascending Parliament,
Senate of silver wings,
Pageant of balanced Thought,
Aerial conference,
Congress of flying men,
And forward flying minds—
Come many, many thoughts
And many many dreams
And thrilling glorious hopes....
Thus, all that battle now,
All that struggle now,
And all that are dying now,
All that are starving now,
Do so smiling and strong,
Do so happy and sure,
Knowing that this age stands
On supremest level of all—
Highest peak of man’s mind,
That dares his nature down,
Fastens his blood in leash,
Refines his passion, until
It calms under his hand,
And goes to war with War.
There is a sudden tremendous sound of guns. The child flings himself on the floor in fear; he crosses himself and lies there looking pitifully up to the walls where the wooden angels poise. The Woodcarver stops his work, and regards the child with a drawn white face.
Christos!—A bitter sea,
That booming sea of guns.
Yet men dare to swim through
The Surf of mittrailleuse,
The solemn tides of blood,
The still, white foam of fear,
The cold blank sands of death....
Yea, men dive into it,
Men swim into it,
Forging beyond its depths
To Something seen ahead,
Until their feet touch shore.
Oh! that the shore they touch
Would be the coasts of Peace!
American bitterly: