The Wrecked Aeroplane

Unhappy craft of Daedalus reborn, That liest prone with white wings torn, And, like some giant prehistoric bird, with throb- bing sound Doest beat they wings on unresponsive ground. Forlorn! Forlorn! This very morn didst set out with thy plume Yet damp from thine Icarian tomb, To plough in mirth again the Stygian wave. With launching cry And sails outset didst dive the unattempted sky To doom! To doom! The early reaper at the start of day Pauses ‘mid the falling hay, And stands in wond’ring gaze, with eyes upturned to watch they flight; To him dost seem some goblin that the lifting nigh Hath gone astray. About thee in they meteor flight along The shore, the shrieking sea birds throng In clustered clouds of angry rivalry, and skim the sea To rise and dip again, and follow with their free Wild tuneless song. Unfledged, untimely birdling of a breath! No useless shroud hast thou, nor wreath. They flight was brief, yet wert thou eagle-hearted as of yore. When fearlessly didst flee that alien Cretan shore To sink in death. And now the furrowed earth holds fast they wings, While far afield the ox-bell rings A strange, soft dirge. Thy blood is dropping on the frightened grass; The night is hushed. A sad, scarce-moving breeze doth pass, And passing sings.