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...THE VALLEY BROOK by JOHN HOWARD BRYANT JUNE (1) by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT THE OLD SCHOOL HOUSE by ALEXANDER ANDERSON LYNCHED by FRANK ANKENBRAND JR. PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 13. AL-BARI by EDWIN ARNOLD THE BABY-HOUSE by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD |