And the day but one;
Yet the light of the bright world dies
With the dying of the sun.
The mind has a thousand eyes,
And the heart but one;
Yet the light of a whole life dies
When love is done.
- Francis William Bourdillon
'Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight' - Vachel Lindsay
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?
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