The Quiet Hour
Absorbing the clear green tranquility
Through the last hour before his evening flight
In the lush verdure by the ruined mill,
Tranced in a spell of viridescent light
That with a solace of calm lucency
Suffuses all his being, musingly
The airman-angler lingers by the still
Water whereon his quill
Poises unstirring, while the quiet and cool
Of the bough-shadowed and unruffled pool
Instill him with the hardihood to dare
The hazard of the coming night
When he must venture overseas
And recklessly
Engage the enemy
At eagle height
On wings that zoom and soar
And dive and wheel,
While all about him through the air
Shells scream and tracer bullets streak and flare
In arabesques of coloured light;
And through the nightmare fantasy
Putt-putting machine-guns pour
Wing-riddling burst about his plane.
The hour of quiet ends; and now again
He winds his line upon the clicking reel,
His spirit tempered in tranquility
And heart endued
With resolution by the solitude,
And speeds back to the drome and eagerly
Climbs to the cockpit, and unblenchingly
Takes off into the night with nerves of steel.
