Lincoln by Vachel Lindsay

by Vachel Lindsay

 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.