Gulls Flying
By JOHN ROLFE
I LIKE to think
That gulls are lost air crewmen come again
To ride, this time on wings more light, more sure,
The invisible lift and sweep of streaming skies.
That gulls are lost air crewmen come again
To ride, this time on wings more light, more sure,
The invisible lift and sweep of streaming skies.
I like to see
In the bright poetry of glide and turn
And buoyant climb, the spirit, born for air,
Flung free at last of earth’s enchaining power
And glorious in its loved element.
In the bright poetry of glide and turn
And buoyant climb, the spirit, born for air,
Flung free at last of earth’s enchaining power
And glorious in its loved element.
Fly, gulls!
Cut your sharp, scythe-winged course across the sky,
Fearing no storm, no fog, no rugged land,
No thick, unlighted night, no boiling sea!
Cut your sharp, scythe-winged course across the sky,
Fearing no storm, no fog, no rugged land,
No thick, unlighted night, no boiling sea!
Mount the bright tower
That cast you down before! Take now the tall
And shining turret for your own. Wheel, gulls!
Cry joy! Cry freedom, pride, wild harmony
With air’s wild turbulence. God speed you. Fly!
That cast you down before! Take now the tall
And shining turret for your own. Wheel, gulls!
Cry joy! Cry freedom, pride, wild harmony
With air’s wild turbulence. God speed you. Fly!