Paul Bewsher

“ In which the day goes slowly to its death
As through the fragrant woods dim Evening's breath
Doth soothe to sleep the drowsy songbirds' choir.
That I were Corot! Then September's gold
Would I store up in painted treasuries
That, when the world seemed grey I could behold
Its blazing colour with sweet memories,
And each elusive colour would be mine [37]
That decorates these afternoons benign.
Ah! Then I could enshrine each fleeting hue
Which dyes the woodland, and enslave the blue
Of sky and haze, with genius divine. ”

“ 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— [8]
As though I sang among the happy Saints
With many a holy thrill—
As though the glowing sun were God's bright Throne. ”

“ The day is cold; the wind is strong;
And through the sky great cloud-banks throng,
While swathes of snow lie on the ground
O'er which I walk without a sound,
But I have vowed to fly to-day
Though winds are fierce, and clouds are grey. ”

“ The world, and worldly things, do weigh,
And some sweet solace I would find,
Into the sky I love to stray,
And, all alone, to wander round
In lone seclusion from the ground.
Ah! Then what solitude is mine—
From grovelling mankind aloof!
Their road is but a thin-drawn line:
Their busy house a scarce-seen roof. ”

“ So often when grey trouble looms so near
That God shines in our minds but distantly,—
If we but thought, our grief would seem so small
That we would see that God's great love was all.
France, 1917.
[29]
Islington
Here slow decay with creeping finger peels
The yellow plaster from the grimy walls,
Like leprous lichen, day by day which falls,
And, day by day, more rotting stone reveals!
Here are old mournful squares through which there steals
No cheerful music, or the heedless calls
Of laughing children; and the smoke, which crawls
Across the sky, the heavy silence seals! ”

“ Nor can I paint September's sky-crowned hills.
Gone then, the wonder which my vision fills,
When all the earth is bound by Winter grim!
Westgate.
[38]
To Hilda:
On Her Seventeenth Birthday.
Now has rich time brought you a gift of gold—
A long sweet year which you can shape at will,
And deck with roses warm, or with the chill
And heartless lilies—God gives strength to mould
Our days, and lives, with fingers firm and bold,
And make them noble, straight and clean from ill,
Though few are willing, and their years they fill
With dross which they regret when they are old. ”

“ Along his furrows, and with restless hand
The sower hurls his seed among the clods—
They cannot see the sun—grey is their sky,—
I see the sun—the heaven's blue—on high!
But I am human, and must e'en descend ”

“ From Trouble's haunting shapes and goblin cares?
O! tree-embowered hamlet, whose demesne
Sleeps in the arms of London quietly,
Whose sparrow-haunted roads, and squares serene,
From all the stress of life seem ever free—
O! are you more than just a passing dream
Beside the city's slim and lovely stream? ”

“ 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.... ”

“ 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
[6]
[7]
The Dawn Patrol
Sometimes I fly at dawn above the sea,
Where, underneath, the restless waters flow—
Silver, and cold, and slow. ”

“ 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.
[1]
THE DAWN PATROL
Paul Bewsher, R.N.A.S.
To My Father ”