Because I fly

I laugh more than other men

I look up an see more than they,
I know how the clouds feel,
What it's like to have the blue in my lap,
To look down on birds,
To feel freedom in a thing called the stick...
Who but I can slice between God's billowed legs,
And feel then laugh and crash with His step
Who else has seen the unclimbed peaks?
The rainbow's secret?
The real reason birds sing?
Because I Fly,
I envy no man on earth.
Flight is freedom in its purest form,
To dance with the clouds which follow a storm;
To roll and glide, to wheel and spin,
To feel the joy that swells within. ..........
To leave the earth with its troubles and fly,
And know the warmth of a clear spring sky;
Then back to earth at the end of the day,
Released from the tensions which melted away........
Should my end come while I am in flight,
Whether brightest day or darkest night;
Spare me no pity and shrug off the pain,
Secure in the knowledge that I'd do it again.
For each of us is created to die,
And within me I know...................
I was born to fly..................

To that sublime reach I seek to fly

Where the horizon meets the sky;
Infinite grace of the aerofoil,
Simple miracles of human toil.
The jump jet, the whirly bird, the turbo-prop,
Tales of blood, sweat and tear-drop,
From eyes and hearts, pride glistens,
The daily prayer the human spirit listens.
The beat of the engine its throb and thrum,
The song of the jet to ethers strum;
Man and machine soar high and swoop down,
Moments I would not part even for the crown.
To that sublime reach I seek to fly,
Where the horizon meets the sky.

Unassuming, simple and fairly naive

I hope there's a place, way up in the sky,
where pilots can go, when they have to die.
A place where a guy can buy a cold beer
for a friend and a comrade, whose memory is dear;
a place where no civil servant or lawyer can tread,
nor a management type would ere be caught dead;
Just a quaint little place, kind of dark, full of smoke,
where they like to sing loud, and love a good joke;
the kind of place where a lady could go
and feel safe and protected, by the men she would know.
There must be a place where old pilots go,
when their paining is finished, and their airspeed gets low,
where the whiskey is old, and the women are young,
and songs about flying and dying are sung,
Where you'd see all the fellows who'd flown west before,
and they'd call out your name, as you came through the door.
who would buy you a drink, if your thirst should be bad,
and relate to the others," He was quite a good lad !"
And then through the mist, you'd spot an old guy
you had not seen in years, though he taught you to fly.
he'd nod his old head, and grin ear to ear;
and say," Welcome, my son, i'm pleased that you're here".
" For this is the place where true flyers come,"
" When their journey is over, and the war has been won."
" Relax with a cool one, and a well deserved rest;"
" This is heaven, my son...... You've passed your final test!"

HIGH FLIGHT
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward Ive climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds- and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of- wheeled and soared and swung
High in the unlit silence. Hovring there,
Ive chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I,ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flewAnd, while with silent lifting mind Ive trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.

John Gillespie Magie Jr.

19 yr old American Pilot

Killed 11 Dec, 1941