abraham lincoln walks at midnight - roy harris lyrics
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 by 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 or lie awake for long
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
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:
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
seem yet in vain. and who will bring white peace
that he may sleep upon his hill again?
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