There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away,
When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay;
'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast,
But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.

Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness
Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess:
The magnet of their course is gone or only points in vain
The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch again.

Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down;
It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own;
That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain, of our tears,
And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears.

Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast,
Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest;
'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreath—
All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and grey beneath.

Oh could I feel as I have felt,—or be what I have been,
Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a vanish'd scene;
As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be,
So, midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me.

Speedbird 9, a Boeing proud, across Indonesian sky,
To Perth from London, via all, two hundred forty-eight lives high.
Captain Moody at the helm, with Greaves and Townley-Freeman too,
But fate would test their mettle soon, as volcanic ash blew through.

St. Elmo's fire dances bright, then engines start to fail,
Four flameouts in the dead of night, a pilot's nightmare tale.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking," cool and clear,
"We have a small problem. All four engines have stopped, I fear.
We're doing our damnedest to get them going again, I trust you're not in too much distress."

A gliding jumbo, silent now, beneath the starry sea,
Moody's wit defies the gloom, his crew works tirelessly.
Descending through the inky black, they fight to restart power,
Each foot of altitude so precious in this desperate hour.

Engines silent, prayers shared, as oxygen masks deploy,
Passengers brace for impact there, while crew their skills employ.

At twenty-three thousand feet, Engine Four comes back to life,
Then Three, then Two, and last comes One – reprieve from deathly strife.
Jakarta's lights now beckon bright, a lifeline in the gloom,
Moody guides his crippled bird, averting certain doom.

Touchdown safe on runway's grace, a cheer erupts on board,
Moody's voice, a soothing balm, as normalcy's restored.

Speedbird 9, a legend born, of ash and engine's roar,
Of pilot's skill and crew's resolve, when death knocked at their door.
For Moody, Greaves, and Townley-Freeman, our gratitude we raise,
The day the sky turned perilous, and coolness saved the day.