Silver Ships by Mildred Plew Merryman

There are trails that a lad may follow
When the years of his boyhood slip,

But I shall soar like a swallow
On the wings of a silver ship,

Guiding my bird of metal,

One with her throbbing frame,
Floating down like a petal,

Roaring up like a flame;
Winding the wind that scatters

Smoke from the chimney’s lip,
Tearing the clouds to tatters

With the wings of a silver ship;

Grazing the broad blue sky light

Up where the falcons fare,
Riding the realms of twilight,

Brushed by a comet’s hair;
Snug in my coat of leather,

Watching the skyline swing,
Shedding the world like a feather

From the tip of a tilted wing.