Go on making angels!
The American, turning to the child, puts his arm around him, and together they stand at the door looking up at the whirling doves.
American gently:
Know’st thou, little one,
They be pigeons,
Who bear all tidings
Under their wings?
Over the borders
Listen, One day,
Winged men shall cross
All the borders
With messages under their wings,
And the Parliaments shall meet
To try their mighty wings
Of fresh and buoyant thought,
And the minds of men shall rise
To the cleanness of the skies,
And the way shall be made clear,
And your world be safe once more.
You shall see clouds of planes,
Soaring over your home
Bringing tidings of hope,
Dropping flowers on the graves
Of the everlasting Young,
Who died to further it.
Flocks of singing planes,
Voyaging over the air,
With singing men and women,
Chanting a paeon of peace.
So that your children’s sons,
Their noble heritage,
Shall register and say
“The warless days came in
With the winged flying men,
And the flying Parliaments
Brought to us lasting Peace.”
The American turns to the Woodcarver. He looks long and fixedly at him. At last he smiles wistfully, and points to the winged figures all about, saying soberly:
Go on making angels!
He makes a slight gesture of farewell, steps out of the door and into the piazza San Marco. Standing there he looks at the Italian flag, then at the small tricolor in his own button-hole. Smiling reverently and tenderly upon them, he stretches out his arms toward the sky, and with a gesture of passionate hope and appeal, salutes the Air.
“GONE WEST”
West Wind blowing from the far clime,
What seeds are you sowing for the New Time?
“Pollen of souls that died
In a young smiling pride,
Scattered of chivalry and world-dream sublime.”
West Wind filling all the green trees,
What hope did they leave for us on our knees?
“Their happy, high Belief
To you they now bequeath—
Their vast, unconquered Sky bannered with breeze.”