Hymn Of The Triumphant Airman

A poem by Rudyard Kipling

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Nor darkness withdrawn.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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