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Hymn Of The Triumphant Airman. 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    Nor darkness withdrawn.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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