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Poem	[A Poem for Aviators] How the Wings Were Made From many morning-glories That in an hour will fade, From many pansy buds Gathered in the shade, From lily of the valley And dandelion buds, From fiery poppy-buds Are the Wings of the Morning made. The Indian Girl Who Made Them These, the Wings of the Morning, An Indian Maiden wove, Intertwining subtilely Wands from a willow grove Beside the Sangamon — Rude stream of Dreamland Town. She bound them to my shoulders With fingers golden-brown. The wings were part of me; The willow-wands were hot. Pulses from my heart Healed each bruise and spot Of the morning-glory buds, Beginning to unfold Beneath her burning song of suns untold. The Indian Girl Tells the Hero Where to Go to Get the Laughing Bell "To the farthest star of all, Go, make a moment's raid. To the west — escape the earth Before your pennons fade! West! west! o'ertake the night That flees the morning sun. There's a path between the stars — A black and silent one. O tremble when you near The smallest star that sings: Only the farthest star Is cool for willow wings. "There's a sky within the west — There's a sky beyond the skies Where only one star shines — The Star of Laughing Bells — In Chaos-land it lies; Cold as morning-dew, A gray and tiny boat Moored on Chaos-shore, Where nothing else can float But the Wings of the Morning strong And the lilt of laughing song From many a ruddy throat: "For the Tree of Laughing Bells Grew from a bleeding seed Planted mid enchantment Played on a harp and reed: Darkness was the harp — Chaos-wind the reed; The fruit of the tree is a bell, blood-red — The seed was the heart of a fairy, dead. Part of the bells of the Laughing Tree Fell to-day at a blast from the reed. Bring a fallen bell to me. Go!" the maiden said. "For the bell will quench our memory, Our hope, Our borrowed sorrow; We will have no thirst for yesterday, No thought for to-morrow." The Journey Starts Swiftly A thousand times ten thousand times More swift than the sun's swift light Were the Morning Wings in their flight On — On — West of the Universe, Thro' the West To Chaos-night. He Nears the Goal How the red bells rang As I neared the Chaos-shore! As I flew across to the end of the West The young bells rang and rang Above the Chaos roar, And the Wings of the Morning Beat in tune And bore me like a bird along — And the nearing star turned to a moon — Gray moon, with a brow of red — Gray moon with a golden song. Like a diver after pearls I plunged to that stifling floor. It was wide as a giant's wheat-field An icy, wind-washed shore. O laughing, proud, but trembling star! O wind that wounded sore! He Climbs the Hill Where the Tree Grows On — Thro' the gleaming gray I ran to the storm and clang — To the red, red hill where the great tree swayed — And scattered bells like autumn leaves. How the red bells rang! My breath within my breast Was held like a diver's breath — The leaves were tangled locks of gray — The boughs of the tree were white and gray, Shaped like scythes of Death. The boughs of the tree would sweep and sway — Sway like scythes of Death. But it was beautiful! I knew that all was well. A thousand bells from a thousand boughs Each moment bloomed and fell. On the hill of the wind-swept tree There were no bells asleep; They sang beneath my trailing wings Like rivers sweet and steep. Deep rock-clefts before my feet Mighty chimes did keep And little choirs did keep. He Receives the Bells Honeyed, small and fair, Like flowers, in flowery lands — Like little maidens' hands — Two bells fell in my hair, Two bells caressed my hair. I pressed them to my purple lips In the strangling Chaos-air. He Starts on the Return Journey On desperate wings and strong, Two bells within my breast, I breathed again, I breathed again — West of the Universe — West of the skies of the West. Into the black toward home, And never a star in sight, By Faith that is blind I took my way With my two bosomed blossoms gay Till a speck in the East was the Milky way: Till starlit was the night. And the bells had quenched all memory — All hope — All borrowed sorrow: I had no thirst for yesterday, No thought for to-morrow. Like hearts within my breast The bells would throb to me And drown the siren stars That sang enticingly; My heart became a bell — Three bells were in my breast, Three hearts to comfort me. We reached the daytime happily — We reached the earth with glee. In an hour, in an hour it was done! The wings in their morning flight Were a thousand times ten thousand times More swift than beams of light. He Gives What He Won to the Indian Girl I panted in the grassy wood; I kissed the Indian Maid As she took my wings from me: With all the grace I could I gave two throbbing bells to her From the foot of the Laughing Tree. And one she pressed to her golden breast And one, gave back to me. From Lilies of the valley — See them fade. From poppy-blooms all frayed, From dandelions gray with care, From pansy-faces, worn and torn, From morning-glories — See them fade — From all things fragile, faint and fair Are the Wings of the Morning made!
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