# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/Letter to an Aviator in France

LETTER TO AN AVIATOR IN FRANCE
A SLOPE of summer sprinkled over With sweet tow-headed pigmy clover Melts suddenly to emerald air Between the moving leaves: for where The terrace plunges noiselessly, A woven wall of appletree (Bearing instead of apples now The redwinged blackbird on the bough,) Enchants the lawn of sun-stained green To seem as though it had not been. From where I sit, no roots are there Nor gnarly trunks show anywhere: Only the thick-leaved upper boughs Close-clustered for the robin's house. And tall above them up the sky The clear lake quivers like some high Wind-ruffled huge crystalline tree Whose roots like theirs are hid from me. It must have light and air and room, With clouds for leaves and hills for bloom, Those pale blue hills that flower along The living branches wild and strong— I hear you laugh and say: "Why make A tree of crystal from the lake? Of course you may if you prefer Shape forests out of lake-water, Great stems of sapphire, shedding light! I understand you. It's all right. But since you are in fantastic mood, Build me a shelter in that wood To keep June sounds and colours in, And shut out the infernal din Of war my ears have heard and heard Until no meaning lights the word!" Well, when it's done and you come home, Lift up the latch of gilded foam ​And enter the transparent door And cross the grooved and shining floor Of a new house I'm building, sir, Of foam and wind on lake-water, With walls intangible about The inner rooms, to keep war out!
But this is nonsense. I have lost My whim. Your laugh recalled has cost So many Spanish castles, dear! And I confess there's no tree here Heaven-tall, with hills upon its boughs, No sheltering sunlight-raftered house, But only water wide and bare, And distant shore and empty air, And far away across the world A proud enduring flag unfurled.
Yet you and I could never live But for the respite that dreams give. Your letters have their intervals, Their hints of magic: a bird calls Or a strange cloud goes by. You hear Music unknown to mortal ear, And as you said in other days, "Last night I dreamed" your message says. So in the end, I scorn your laughter, Lord of my secret thoughts! And after War will come peace, you'll not deny, And wider light for dreaming by. Now, let's pretend as children do: It is my way of reaching you. Blue Vermont hills we'll say, are fruit Which I may pluck, when it shall suit My mood, and send like grapes to you, All honey-rich and webbed with dew, Packed in their cloudy leaves and cool Of colour like a twilight pool. And if you've wandered past the sky On some new errand, comrade, I ​Shall climb the tree the fruit grew on To see which road it is you've gone. How shall I plan to overtake Those wings of yours? And I must make In time to welcome you, a proud White castle of some mountain cloud— But no more now. . . . The old clock clangs Somewhere within. A veery hangs Small golden wreaths along the alder, And mother Robin's babies called her Just now from their leaf-hidden room, And sunset roses are in bloom.
Grace Hazard Conkling
Lake Champlain, June, 1918.