The House Where Lincoln Died
Above Judea's purple-mantled plain,
There hovers still, among the ruins lone,
The spirit of the Christ whose dying moan
Was heard in heaven, and paid our debt in pain.
As subtle perfume lingers with the rose,
Even when its petals flutter to the earth,
So clings the potent mystery of the birth
Of that deep love from which all mercy flows.
....
Within this house,—this room,—a martyr died,
A prophet of a larger liberty,—
A liberator setting bondmen free,
A full-orbed MAN, above mere mortal pride.
The cloud-rifts opening to celestial glades,
Oft glimpse him, and his spirit lingers still,
As Christ's sweet influence broods upon the hill
Where the red lily with the sunset fades.
....
A little girl with eyes of heavenly blue,
Sings through the old place, ignorant of all;
Her angel face, her cheerful, birdlike call
Thrilling the heart to life more full, more true.