Vachel Lindsay

Lincoln

Would I might rouse the Lincoln in you all, 
That which is gendered in the wilderness 
From lonely prairies and God’s tenderness. 
Imperial soul, star of a weedy stream, 
Born where the ghosts of buffaloes still dream, 
Whose spirit hoof-beats storm above his grave, 
Above that breast of earth and prairie-fire — 
Fire that freed the slave.