| IT is portentous, and a thing of state |
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| That here at midnight, in our little town |
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| A mourning figure walks, and will not rest, |
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| Near the old court-house pacing up and down, |
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| Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yards |
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| He lingers where his children used to play, |
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| Or through the market, on the well-worn stones |
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| He stalks until the dawn-stars burn away. |
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| A bronzed, lank man! His suit of ancient black, |
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| A famous high top-hat and plain worn shawl |
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| Make him the quaint great figure that men love, |
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| The prairie-lawyer, master of us all. |
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| He cannot sleep upon his hillside now. |
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| He is among us:—as in times before! |
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| And we who toss and lie awake for long, |
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| Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door. |
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| His head is bowed. He thinks of men and kings. |
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| Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep? |
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| Too many peasants fight, they know not why; |
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| Too many homesteads in black terror weep. |
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| The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart. |
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| He sees the dreadnaughts scouring every main. |
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| He carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders now |
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| The bitterness, the folly and the pain. |
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| He cannot rest until a spirit-dawn |
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| Shall come;—the shining hope of Europe free: |
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| A league of sober folk, the Workers' Earth, |
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| Bringing long peace to Cornland, Alp and Sea. |
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| It breaks his heart that things must murder still, |
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| That all his hours of travail here for men |
30 |
| Seem yet in vain. And who will bring white peace |
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| That he may sleep upon his hill again? |
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