Book Club Report Abraham Lincoln, the Prairie Years

Abraham Lincoln’s Own Poetry:

Abraham Lincoln
his hand and pen
he will be good but
God knows when .

Abraham Lincoln is my name
And with my pen I wrote the same
I wrote in both haste and speed
and left it here for fools to read

Whatever Spiteful fools may Say —
Each jealous, ranting yelper —
No woman ever played the whore
Unless she had a man to help her.

Lincoln's last documented verse was written July 19, 1863,

in response to the North's victory in the Battle of Gettysburg:

In eighteen sixty three, with pomp,
and mighty swell,
Me and Jeff's Confederacy, went
forth to sack Phil-del,
The Yankees they got after us, and
give us particular hell,
And we skedaddled back again,
And didn't sack Phil-del.

Lincoln – poems about him:

O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!
Walt Whitman (1819-1892)

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head! It is some dream that on the deck You've fallen cold and dead. My captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will, The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; Exult, O shores, and ring O bells! But I, with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

Anne Rutledge by Edgar Lee Masters

Out of me unworthy and unknown

The vibrations of deathless music:

"With malice toward none, with charity for all."

Out of me the forgiveness of millions toward millions,

And the beneficent face of a nation.

Shining with justice and truth.

I am Anne Rutledge who sleep beneath these weeds,

Beloved in life of Abraham Lincoln,

Wedded to him, not through union,

But through separation.

Bloom forever, O Republic,

From the dust of my bosom!

NANCY HANKS by Stephen and Rosemary Benet

If Nancy Hanks
Came back as a ghost,
Seeking news
Of what she loved most,
She'd ask first
"Where's my son?
What's happened to Abe?
What's he done?"

"Poor little Abe,
Left all alone
Except for Tom,
Who's a rolling stone;
He was only nine
The year I died.
I remember still
How hard he cried."

"Scraping along
In a little shack,
With hardly a shirt
To cover his back,
And a prairie wind
To blow him down,
Or pinching times
If he went to town."

"You wouldn't know
About my son?
Did he grow tall?
Did he have fun?
Did he learn to read?
Did he get to town?
Do you know his name?
Did he get on?"

Julius Silberger wrote another poem, entitled "A Reply to Nancy Hanks"

Yes, Nancy Hanks,
The news we will tell
Of your Abe
Whom you loved so well.
You asked first,
"Where's my son?"
He lives in the heart
Of everyone.