Abraham Lincoln, Born Feb. 12, 1809

To-day, from each and all, a breath of prayer, a pulse of thought,
To memory of Him, to birth of Him.

Walt Whitman

Walt Whitman was an American poet, essayist, and journalist, often considered one of the most influential poets in the American canon. His work broke the boundaries of poetic form and is known for its free verse style. Whitman’s most famous collection, 'Leaves of Grass', celebrates democracy, nature, love, and friendship. He had a significant impact on later literary traditions and is often referred to as the father of free verse.

Walt Whitman

To The Leaven'd Soil They Trod

Walt Whitman, Simple Poetry

To You

Walt Whitman, Simple Poetry

Thou Orb Aloft Full-Dazzling

Walt Whitman, Simple Poetry

Behavior

Walt Whitman, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

For The Services In Memory Of Abraham Lincoln

CITY OF BOSTON, JUNE 1, 1865

CHORAL: "LUTHER'S JUDGMENT HYMN."

O thou of soul and sense and breath
The ever-present Giver,
Unto thy mighty Angel, Death,
All flesh thou dost deliver;
What most we cherish we resign,
For life and death alike are thine,
Who reignest Lord forever!

Our hearts lie buried in the dust
With him so true and tender,
The patriot's stay, the people's trust,
The shield of the offender;
Yet every murmuring voice is still,
As, bowing to thy sovereign will,
Our best-loved we surrender.

Dear Lord, with pitying eye behold
This martyr generation,
Which thou, through trials manifold,
Art showing thy salvation
Oh let the blood by murder spilt
Wash out thy stricken children's guilt
And sanctify ou...

Oliver Wendell Holmes

On Reading President Lincoln's Letter

To Horace Greeley, of date Aug. 22, 1862 "If I could save the Union without freeing any slave, I would do it," etc.

Perish the power that, bowed to dust,
Still wields a tyrant's rod
That dares not even then be just,
And leave the rest with God.

Hanford Lennox Gordon

Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight

(In Springfield, Illinois)



    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
    Br...

Vachel Lindsay

Abraham Lincoln.

    No martyr-blood hath ever flowed in vain! -
No patriot bled, that proved not freedom's gain!
Those tones, which despots heard with fear and dread
From living lips, ring sterner from the dead;
And he who dies, lives, oft, more truly so
Than had he never felt the untimely blow.

    And so with him thus, in an instant, hurled
From earthly hopes and converse with the world.
Each trickling blood-drop shall, with sudden power
Achieve the work of years in one short hour,
And his faint death-sigh more strong arms unite
In stern defence of Freedom and of Right,
Than all he could have said by word or pen,
In a whole life of threescore years and ten!

    Dead! fell assassin! did you think him dead,
When, with unmurmuring lips, he bowed his head,
Wh...

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule)

Lincoln

When God created this good world
A few stupendous peaks were hurled
From His strong hand, and they remain
The wonder of the level plain.
But these colossal heights are rare,
While shifting sands are everywhere.

So with the race.    The centuries pass
And nations fall like leaves of grass.
They die, forgotten and unsung;
While straight from God some souls are flung,
To live immortal and sublime.
So lives great Lincoln for all time.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Birthday Of Daniel Webster (January 18, 1856)

When life hath run its largest round
Of toil and triumph, joy and woe,
How brief a storied page is found
To compass all its outward show!

The world-tried sailor tires and droops;
His flag is rent, his keel forgot;
His farthest voyages seem but loops
That float from life's entangled knot.

But when within the narrow space
Some larger soul hath lived and wrought,
Whose sight was open to embrace
The boundless realms of deed and thought, -

When, stricken by the freezing blast,
A nation's living pillars fall,
How rich the storied page, how vast,
A word, a whisper, can recall!

No medal lifts its fretted face,
Nor speaking marble cheats your eye,
Yet, while these pictured lines I trace,
A living image passes by:

A roof...

Oliver Wendell Holmes