With plane and engine, chance and nerve,
Yet like a Jove who boldly fared
Across the firmament supreme;
O’er vortexes with plunge and swerve,
O’er air-abysses where the scream
Of harpies echoed mocking forth
On ears too tense—yet ever on
O’er blinding South and blasting North,
Triumphant up or headlong down!
Ten thousand feet on high, ye gods,