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| 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, | 5 |
| 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, | 10 |
| 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 | 15 |
| 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 | 20 |
| 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— | 25 |
| 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, | 30 |
| 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. | 35 |
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