An Aeroplane at Stonehenge
We stood at Stonehenge as the evening fell.
A mist had gathered and the reddened sun
Glowed like an altar-fire upon the edge
Of Salisbury Plain. The aged stones,
To whom our thousand years of fear and hope,
Of war and peace, were but as yesterday,
Merged into the shadows. The solemn night,
The mystery, the burden of grey Time
Awed us to silence. And then, from the heart
Of that age-wonted stillness sprang and grew
The iterant throbbing of an aeroplane;
And over our Druid world the marvel sped
And vanished.
                                With the breaking of the spell
Our thought turned to the gradual perfecting
Of this, the century's new gift to man,
With all its ruthless toll of human life; --
And suddenly the place in which we stood
Grew peopled with strange forms. A priest was there
With naked blade; and prone before him lay
A victim on whose pallid face was writ
The passion of a willing sacrifice.
And spirit unto shrouded spirit spake:
"I give; ye gain; but shall it always be
That life must take its wage of life, and men
Must die that Man may win the goal he seeks?"
And as we turned away, the mighty stones
Seemed dumbly questioning the silent stars.