Plane

We scud across the white eternal plain
Whose rolling hills soon flatten into sheets;
Or skid along a bleached and endless main
Whose edgeless quality subtly defeats
My thoughts of measurement; or slip beyond
The world of men entirely, and slide
Through space and pure imagination fond.
Wherever we may be, the joyful ride
Turns terrible as soon as we descend
For that which seemed earth, sea, or perfect blank
Will always turn upon us in the end
Swallowing us who, coating each flank
Wherever we may look, with white and white
Refusing any hope of end-or sight.