Mr. Lincoln: Poet
by Michael Escoubas

We tend to think of Mr. Lincoln
as among the saddest of men.
His weathered face, a desert of creases,
eyes deep pools of worry, lips pursed
with pain of war.
                            Many may not know
that Mr. Lincoln was a man of verse.
He wrote of love and sorrow, and home:

My childhood’s home I see again,
And sadden with the view;
And still, as memory crowds my brain,
There’s pleasure in it too.

I think of him, in all his melancholy,
as a strong man vaguely seen. Does his
appearance shadow the sunshine of hope,
on a nation and on a people, who before
him, were cut by chains and shackles
and whips?
                  Who was this man whose
vision surpassed his time? Who was
this man who imagined freedom
for all, bulging and blazing and big
in itself? Who was this man felled
by an assassin’s bullet, whose star
shines bright in glory, whose spirit
knew that no man has the right
to snuff out another man’s candle?

Did Mr. Lincoln, long before, portend
his destiny, in a poet’s cloak on April 14, 1865 …

And, freed from all that’s earthly vile,
Seem hallowed, pure, and bright,
Like scenes in some enchanted isle,
All bathed in liquid light.



Source for Lincoln’s poetry: Lincoln’s Battle with God, Copyright by Stephen Mansfeld, 2012, page 71.  

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