Sandburg watches a daring early aviator, Lincoln Beachey, ride east through the sky, and he turns him into something almost mythic: a “man-bird” with “death-laughter” in his throat. The speaker is thrilled and unnerved by the pilot’s courage. Beachey sits calmly at the wheel, a tiny “far fleck of shadow,” surrounded by huge gray wings. The engine’s purr and the rushing east wind give the scene a strange, intimate hum. There is real tenderness in the speaker’s voice as he asks those wings to hold him and deal kindly with the cool, calm shadow at the controls. The effect is not simple hero-worship; it is closer to a hushed, protective worry. The closing plea leaves the pilot suspended in both sky and danger. The mood is lonesome and tense but also reverent—a quiet prayer for someone whose love of the “big blue beyond” keeps pulling him toward the edge.
To Beachey, 1912 — Summary
Riding against the east, A veering, steady shadow- Purrs the motor-call Of the man-bird Ready with the death-laughter In his throat And in his heart always The love of the big blue beyond.
Only a man, A far fleck of shadow on the east Sitting at ease With his hands on a wheel And around him the large gray wings. Hold him, great soft wings, Keep and deal kindly, O wings, With the cool, calm shadow at the wheel.