 Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight, in Springfield, Illinois, by Vacheal Lindsey, read for LibriVox.org for Presidents' Day 2007 by Alan Davis Drake. It is portentious, and a thing of state, that here at midnight, in our little town, a morning figure walks and will not rest near the old courthouse, 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 lankman, 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 this 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. Yay, 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 warlords burn his heart. He sees the dreadnaughts scouring every mane. 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 this hill again? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. It is portentious and a thing of state that here at midnight in our little town a morning figure walks and will not rest near the old courthouse pacing up and down, or by his homestead or in shadowed yards he lingers where his children used to play, or through the market or 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 warlords burn his heart, he sees the dreadnaught scouring every mane, 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. And of palm this recording is in the public domain. It is potentious and a thing of state that here at midnight in our little town a morning figure walks and will not rest near the old courthouse 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 warlords burn his heart. He sees the dreadnoughts 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. End of poem. This recording is in a public domain. He sings up and down, or by his homestead, or in shadow 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, blank man, his suit of ancient black, a famous eyed up hat in plain worn shawl, making 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 in kings, yet when the sick will rise, how can he sleep? Too many peasants fight, they know not why, too many homesteads in black terror weep, the sins of all the warlords burn his heart, he sees the dreadnought scouring every main. He carries on his shawl, wrapped shoulders now, the bitterness, the folly and the pain. He cannot rest until his spirit dawn shall come, the shining hope of Europe free, a league of sober folk, the workers' earth, bringing long peace to Cornland Alps and see 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. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Abraham Lincoln walks at midnight in Springfield Illinois by Vashal Lindsay. Read for LibriVox.org for Presidents Day 2007 by Kristen Hughes. It is portentious and a thing of state that here at midnight, in our little town a morning figure walks and will not rest, near the old courthouse 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's stars burn away. A bronzed lankman, 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 warlords burn his heart, he sees the dreadnought 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' ear, bring long peace to Cornland, Alpensea. 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? End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Abraham Lincoln walks at midnight in Springfield, Illinois by Vacheal Lindsey. Read for Librabox.org for Presidents Day 2007 by Lucy Burgoyne. It is pretentious and a thing of state that here at midnight in our little town a morning figure walks and will not rest near the old courthouse pacing up and down. Or by his homestead or in shadow 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 bronze-length 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, yay, when the sick will cries, how can he sleep? Too many peasants fight, they know not why, too many homesteads in black carol weep. The sins of all the warlords burn his heart, he sees the dreadnaught scouring every man. 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 leaguer's sober thought, the workers' earth, bringing long peace to corn-owned, elk 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? End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight in Springfield, Illinois by Vache Lindsay, read for LibriVox.org for Presidents Day 2007 by Mark Smith. It is portentous and a thing of state that here at midnight in our little town a morning figure walks and will not rest near the old courthouse 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 bronze lankman, 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 past 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 warlords burn his heart, he sees the dreadnoughts scouring every mane, 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 seen yet in vain, and who will bring white peace that he may sleep upon his hill again. And a poem? This recording is in the public domain. Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight in Springfield, Illinois by Vachel Lindsey, read for LibriVox.org for Presidents Day 2007 by Patrick C. Conley. It is pretentious and a thing of state that here at midnight in our little town a morning figure walks and will not rest near the old courthouse 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 lankman, 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 warlords burn his heart, he sees the dreadnought scouring every mane. 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 from men seem yet in vain, and who will bring white peace that he may sleep upon his hill again? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight in Springfield, Illinois by Vashal Lindsey for LibriVox.org narrated by Sean McKinley for Presidents Day 2007. It is portentious and a thing of state that here at midnight in our little town a morning figure walks and will not rest near the old courthouse 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 and black terror weep. The sins of all the warlords burn his heart. He sees the dreadnoughts 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. End of poem. This