Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, LINCOLN, by JOHN GOULD FLETCHER


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

LINCOLN, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Like a gaunt, scraggly pine
Last Line: Bitter for remembrance of the healing which has passed.
Subject(s): Lincoln, Abraham (1809-1865); Patriotism; Presidents, United States


I

Like a gaunt, scraggly pine
Which lifts its head above the mournful sandhills;
And patiently, through dull years of bitter silence,
Untended and uncared for, starts to grow.

Ungainly, labouring, huge,
The wind of the north has twisted and gnarled its branches;
Yet in the heat of mid-summer days, when thunder clouds
ring the horizon,
A nation of men shall rest beneath its shade.

And it shall protect them all,
Hold everyone safe there, watching aloof in silence;
Until at last, one mad stray bolt from the zenith
Shall strike it in an instant down to earth.

II

There was a darkness in this man; an immense and hollow darkness,
Of which we may not speak, nor share with him nor enter;
A darkness through which strong roots stretched downwards
into the earth,
Towards old things;

Towards the herdman-kings who walked the earth and spoke with God,
Towards the wanderers who sought for they knew not what,
and found their goal at last;
Towards the men who waited, only waited patiently when all
seemed lost,
Many bitter winters of defeat;

Down to the granite of patience,
These roots swept, knotted fibrous roots, prying, piercing, seeking,
And drew from the living rock and the living waters about it,
The red sap to carry upwards to the sun.

Not proud, but humble,
Only to serve and pass on, to endure to the end through service,
For the axe is laid at the roots of the trees, and all that
bring not forth good fruit
Shall be cut down on the day to come and cast into the fire.

III

There is a silence abroad in the land to-day,
And in the hearts of men, a deep and anxious silence;
And, because we are still at last, those bronze lips slowly open,
Those hollow and weary eyes take on a gleam of light.

Slowly a patient, firm-syllabled voice cuts through the
endless silence,
Like labouring oxen that drag a plough through the chaos of
rude clay-fields;
"I went forward as the light goes forward in early Spring,
But there were also many things which I left behind.

"Tombs that were quiet;
One, of a mother, whose brief light went out in the darkness,
One of a loved one, the snow on whose grave is long falling,
One only of a child, but it was mine.

"Have you forgotten your graves? Go, question them in anguish,
Listen long to their unstirred lips. From your hostages to silence
Learn there is no life without death, no dawn without sun-setting,
No victory but to him who has given all."

The clamour of cannon dies down, the furnace-mouth of the
battle is silent,
The midwinter sun dips and descends, the earth takes on
afresh its bright colours.
But he whom we mocked and obeyed not, he whom we scorned
and mistrusted,
He has descended, like a god, to his rest.

Over the uproar of cities,
Over the million intricate threads of life weaving and crossing,
In the midst of problems we know not, tangling, perplexing, ensnaring,
Rises one white tomb alone.

Beam over it, stars,
Wrap it 'round, stripes -- stripes red for the pain that he
bore for you --
Enfold it forever, O, flag, rent, soiled, but repaired
through your anguish;
Long as you keep him there safe, the nations shall bow to your law.

Strew over him flowers:
Blue forget-me-nots from the north and the bright pink arbutus
From the east, and from the west rich orange blossom,
But from the heart of the land take the passion-flower;

Rayed, violet, dim,
With the nails that pierced, the cross that he bore and the circlet,
And beside it there lay also one lonely snow-white magnolia,
Bitter for remembrance of the healing which has passed.






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