Hymn Of The Triumphant Airman

by Rudyard Kipling

　　

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Oh, long had we paltered With bridle and girth Ere those horses were haltered That gave us the Earth, Ere the Flame and the Fountain, The Spark and the Wheel, Sank Ocean and Mountain Alike ’neath our keel. But the Wind in her blowing, The bird on the wind, Made naught of our going, And left us behind. Till the gale was outdriven, The gull overflown, And there matched us in Heaven The Sun-God alone. He only the master We leagued to o’erthrow, He only the faster And, therefore, our foe! . . . . . Light steals to uncurtain The dim-shaping skies That arch and make certain Where he shall arise. We lift to the onset. We challenge anew. From sunrise to sunset, Apollo, pursue! . . . . . What ails thee, O Golden? Thy Chariot is still? What Power has withholden The Way from the Will? Lo, Hesper hath paled not, Nor darkness withdrawn. The Hours have availed not To lead forth the Dawn! Do they flinch from full trial, The Coursers of Day? The shade on our dial Moves swifter than they! We fleet, but thou stayest A God unreleased; And still thou delayest Low down in the East, A beacon faint-burning, A glare that decays As the blasts of our spurning Blow backward its blaze. The mid-noon grows colder, Night rushes to meet, And the curve of Earth’s shoulder Heaves up thy defeat. Storm on at that portal, We have thee in prison! Apollo, immortal, Thou hast not arisen!

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