Explore "The Horrors of Flying" by Paul Bewsher on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
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.
My aeroplane is on the field; / So I must fly -- my fate is sealed, / And no excuses can I make; / Within its back my place I take. / I strap myself inside the seat / And press the rudder with my feet, / And hold the wheel with nervous grip / And gaze around my little ship -- / For on its wire-rigging taut / Depends my life -- which will be short / If it should fail me in the air; / Swift then my fall, and short my prayer, / And these my wings would be my pyre -- / So well I scrutinise each wire!