Lincoln
by Leonard Nathan
This, his last speech,/
composed between theater and deathbed,/
is still to be heard.//
In its preamble of pain/
he draws all creatures equal into the nation/
of his pity//
then lowers their hurt cries/
gently down to the faith of his breath as it softens/
into a prayer of grass//
and ends praising/
the wounded system that called him out/
to his own doubtful election//
