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.

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