As fell again and still again
On England's homes—and thus awake
The heart of pity—and so make
An end to killing mothers, wives,
And maiming helpless infant lives—
If wings, O God, will do these things,
Then give us wings, and wings and wings
And still more wings.
If dauntless, daring wings that dash
O'er No-Man's Land, with shot and crash,
Might beat back wings that would assail
Advancing armies with their hail—
If dauntless wings like these that ride
O'er No-Man's Land, might turn the tide
Of great offensive—bring about
Allied success and Teuton rout—
If wings, O God, will do these things,
Then give us wings and wings and wings
Devouring wings that cleave and soar,
And yet more wings and more and more!
If multitudes of wings might rise
To blind aggression's lustful eyes,
And render powerless every stroke
That seeks to force the tyrant's yoke—
