An Aeroplane at Stonehenge / Edmund Broadus

An Aeroplane at Stonehenge


WE stood at Stonehenge as the evening fell. A mist had gathered and the reddened sun Glowed like an altar-fire upon the edge Of Salisbury Plain. The aged stones, To whom our thousand years of fear and hope, Of war and peace, were but as yesterday, Merged into the shadows. The solemn night, The mystery, the burden of gray Time Awed us to silence. And then, from the heart Of that age-wonted stillness sprang and grew The iterant throbbing of an aeroplane; And over our Druid world the marvel sped And vanished. With the breaking of the spell Our thought turned to the gradual perfecting Of this, the century’s new gift to man, With all its ruthless toll of human life;— And suddenly the place in which we stood Grew peopled with strange forms. A priest was there With naked blade; and prone before him lay A victim on whose pallid face was writ The passion of a willing sacrifice. And spirit unto shrouded spirit spake: “I give; ye gain; but shall it always be That life must take its wage of life, and men Must die that Man may win the goal he seeks?” And as we turned away, the mighty stones Seemed dumbly questioning the quiet stars.