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’’’’’’’’’’
(’伊’諾斯斯普’’爾’)
’麽’’驚’’’麽不’’’
’’’分’’我們’’鎮’’
’個’’’’’’’不停歇’
踽踽’’’’老’縣’’樓’’
’’’’’’’’’邊’陰’’’’裏’
’’’’’’曾’那’’’’戲’
’’’踏著’’’石’路’’’市場’
’’’走’’’’化’晨’’
’’’黑’個’’’’身黑’禮’’
著’’’禮’’用舊’圍’’
’’成爲’們’戴’’偉’’
’’’原’’’我們衆’’首領’
’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’
’’’’’’我們中間’
我們’’輾轉不’’睡’’民’
’動’’見’’’’’’
’’’’’’’’民衆’’’’
’啊’’’’’’’’喊’’’’’’寢?
有’少’民打’’’不’爲什麽原’’
有’少’’’’懼中Ｚ’’
’閥們’’’’’著’’心’’
’’見’艘艘’’戰艦橫’’’’’
’’’圍’緊’’雙’’
擔’’’’’’’’’傷’
’不’’’’除’心’’’曉’’
’’’由歐’’’望’’’’’
’智’’民結成’盟’’’’’’’
給’’’高’’’’’’’’’平’
國’們仍’殺’’’’’’心’’
’爲民衆’心’’’’切’’’’白’’
有誰’’’’潔’’平’
讓’’’’’’睡?
’
’滯’目’
’莫讓’輕’’’顯身手’創’’蹟之’’
’’壓’’不’’’’
’’’’殘’’’’’’’’’’’
’’’’’馬’’’蹣’’目’’’’
’’’不’’們食不’腹’而’’饑’中失’’夢’
’’’不’’們辛勤’種’而’’們難’收穫’
’’’不’’們’候’’’而’’有’’’’’’’
’’’不’’們難’’’’而’’’像’動’’
’ |
Abraham Lincoln Walks at
Midnight
(In Springfield, Illinois)
A 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
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?
The Leaden-Eyed
Let not young souls be
smothered out before
They do quaint deeds and fully flaunt their
pride.
It is the world's one crime its babes grow dull,
Its poor are oxlike, limp and leaden-eyed.
Not that they starve, but starve so dreamlessly;
Not that they sow, but that they seldom reap;
Not that they serve, but have no gods to serve;
Not that they die, but that they die like sheep. |