Not for the last time be our England filled With golden grain crops, every acre tilled; Not for the last time if we are wise; yet I Draw no good omen from the noisy sky. I know the wherefore of the aircraft's roaring. But it brings little for our homely storing; Nor do content and comfort come more near When in one day we vault the hemisphere. That aerodrome—which I remember well As a snug farm and richly arable— That aerodrome's a symptom, whence the sage Can read the science sickness of the age. "Nay, a new age, and 'other palms are won.'" Old I forgot that, sitting in the sun. But this I know: when cities cry for bread, "God bless friend Hodge," they say; "his gear be sped!" | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MEMORY OF APRIL by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS A BORDER AFFAIR by CHARLES BADGER CLARK JR. LITANY by ROBERT GRANT (1785-1838) THE YEAR OF JUBILEE by HENRY CLAY WORK A LULLABY by LAWRENCE ALMA-TADEMA |