I think ofttimes as the night draws nigh
Of an airport on the hill,
Of a runway wide and bordered with grass,
Where the airplanes taxied at will.
And when the night at last came down,
Hushing the whirling din,
Masters would look around and ask,
'Are all the airplanes in?'
'Tis many and many a day since then,
And the airport on the hill
Echoes of pilots who've come and gone,
And the runway is never still.
But I see it all as it used to be,
And tho' many the voices have been,
In the old north hanger, I hear Masters ask,
'Are all the airplanes in?'
I wonder if as the shadows fall
On his hair now turning gray,
As he steps aside as men must do
For new pilots to come the way,
If forgotten they'll pass him while calmly he stands,
Eyes focused upon the wind,
And quietly he'll ask tho' no one may hear,
'Are all the airplanes in?'