ABRAHAM LINCOLN WALKS AT MIDNIGHT

            (through the streets of Springield, IL)

                           Vachel Lindsay

It is potentious, and a thing of state

    That here at midnight, in our little town

A mourning figure walks, and will not rest

    Near the old court-house pacing up and down.

Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yards

    He lingers where his children used to play,

Or through the market, on the well-worn stones.

    He stalks until the dawn-stars burn away.

A bronzed, lank man! His suit of ancient black,

    A famous high-top-hat and plain worn shawl

Make him the quaint great figure that men love,

    The prairie-lawyer, master of us all.

He cannot sleep upon his hillside now.

    He is among us, as in times before!

And we who toss and lie awake for long

    Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door.

His head is bowed. He thinks on men and kings.

    Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep?

Too many peasants fight, they know not why,

    Too many homesteads in black terror weep.

This sins of all the war-lords burn his heart.

    He sees the dreadnaughts scouring every main.

He carries on his shawl-wrapt shoulders now

    The bitterness, the folly and the pain.

He cannot rest until a spirit-dawn

    Shall come;-the shining hope of Europe free;

The league of sober folk, the Workers' Earth

    Bringing long peace to Cornland, Alp, and Sea.

It breaks his heart that kings must murder still,

    That all his hours of travail here for men

Seem yet in vain. And who will bring white peace

    That he may sleep upon his hill again?