Daily Whitman

Lincoln Funeral Train


When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d

  Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities,
  Amid lanes and through old woods, where lately the violets peep'd
      from the ground, spotting the gray debris,
  Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes, passing the
      endless grass,
  Passing the yellow-spear'd wheat, every grain from its shroud in the
      dark-brown fields uprisen,
  Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards,
  Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave,
  Night and day journeys a coffin.


Posted on 20/02/2015, in literature, poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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