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
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 of 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

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
Shall come;—the shining hope of Europe free
A league of sober folk, the Workers' Earth
Bringing long peace to Cornland, Alp and Sea

It breaks his heart that things 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

Vachel Lindsay