The Dawn Patrol, and other poems of an aviator   By: Paul Bewsher (1894-1966)

PAUL BEWSHER, R.N.A.S., D.S.C.

"A new domain has been won for poetry by the war that of the air. This is of greater importance than the bare statement suggests.... 'The Dawn Patrol' marks so notable a departure in English literature that it will in after years be eagerly sought by collectors.... Mr. Bewsher's most considerable triumph is to have been the first airman poet to regard humanity from the detached standpoint of the sky." Daily Graphic.

"The fable of Pegasus is come true.... Mr Bewsher never strains for effect.... The strongest impression his poems leave is of a sincere and ingenuous nature devoted to duty, but of keen sensibilities." The Times.

LONDON, W.C. 1: ERSKINE MACDONALD, LTD.

Second Impression: One Shilling and Sixpence net.

THE DAWN PATROL

Paul Bewsher, R.N.A.S.

To My Father; My Best Friend, My Best Critic. P.B.

SEPT., 1917.

The Dawn Patrol And Other Poems of an Aviator

By PAUL BEWSHER, R.N.A.S.

ERSKINE MACDONALD, LTD., MALORY HOUSE, FEATHERSTONE BUILDINGS, LONDON, W.C. 1

All rights reserved.

Copyright in the United States of America by Erskine MacDonald, Ltd.

First Published November, 1917. Second Impression, February, 1918.

Printed by Harrison, Jehring & Co., Ltd., 11 15, Emerald St. W.C. 1.

CONTENTS

PAGE

THE DAWN PATROL 7

THE JOY OF FLYING 9

THE CRASH 11

THE NIGHT RAID 13

DESPAIR 18

THE HORRORS OF FLYING 19

DREAMS OF AUTUMN 24

TO CARLTON BERRY 25

LONDON IN MAY 26

A FALLEN LEAF 27

THE STAR 28

ISLINGTON 29

THE COUNTRY BEAUTIFUL 30

CHELSEA 31

K. L. H. 32

THE FRINGE OF HEAVEN 33

THREE TRIOLETS 34

CLOUD THOUGHTS 35

AUTUMN REGRETS 36

TO HILDA 38

CLOUDS 39

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 new born sun, 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 inflamèd eye, 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 seem I, 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 earth bound plaints As though I sang among the happy Saints With many a holy thrill As though the glowing sun were God's bright Throne.

My flight is done. I cross the line of foam That breaks around a town of grey 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.

Luxeuil les Bains, 1917.

The Joy of Flying