| |
| IT is portentous, 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 | 5 |
| 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 | 10 |
| 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 | 15 |
| 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. | 20 |
| |
| The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart. | |
| He sees the dreadnaughts scouring every main. | |
| He carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders now | |
| The bitterness, the folly, and the pain. | |
| |
| He cannot rest until a spirit-dawn | 25 |
| 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 | 30 |
| Seem yet in vain. And who will bring white peace | |
| That he may sleep upon his hill again? | |
| |
