The AŽroplane

By George Sterling

The morning washed the wind with April rain,
    And there were eagles on the noonday blue,
    With none to take the paths on, which they flew.
Now as the world's unhappy voices wane
Great wings are on the loneliness again,
    And ere it home from out the crimson west,
    A weary bird returning to the nest,
Into the sunset drifts the aeroplane.

A mote in that magnificence, it dies,
Fading upon the barren, splendid skies
    That fade in turn, closing their courts of light.
        Darkness and then a tremor high and far:
    Are those your wings, gray condor of the night,
        Seen and then lost below the setting start

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