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 |
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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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