It is portentous, and a thing of state <br />That here at midnight, in our little town <br />A mourning figure walks, and will not rest, <br />Near the old court-house pacing up and down. <br /> <br />Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yards <br />He lingers where his children used to play, <br />Or through the market, on the well-worn stones <br />He stalks until the dawn-stars burn away. <br /> <br />A bronzed, lank man! His suit of ancient black, <br />A famous high top-hat and plain worn shawl <br />Make him the quaint great figure that men love, <br />The prairie-lawyer, master of us all. <br /> <br />He cannot sleep upon his hillside now. <br />He is among us: -- as in times before! <br />And we who toss and lie awake for long <br />Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door. <br /> <br />His head is bowed. He thinks on men and kings. <br />Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep? <br />Too many peasants fight, they know not why, <br />Too many homesteads in black terror weep. <br /> <br />The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart. <br />He sees the dreadnaughts scouring every main. <br />He carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders now <br />The bitterness, the folly and the pain. <br /> <br />He cannot rest until a spirit-dawn <br />Shall come; -- the shining hope of Europe free; <br />The league of sober folk, the Workers' Earth, <br />Bringing long peace to Cornwall, Alp and Sea. <br /> <br />It breaks his heart that kings must murder still, <br />That all his hours of travail here for men <br />Seem yet in vain. And who will bring white peace <br />That he may sleep upon his hill again?<br /><br />Vachel Lindsay<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/abraham-lincoln-walks-at-midnight/
