They Read Aloud To Each Other

We are in Lexington and it is 1847 Emilie laughs, and we smile, and still we read aloud together. Mr. Lincoln likes the Niles Weekly Rigister--especially and of course the poetry. Especially "Thanatopsis" He bracketed this: But, Ah! What wish can prosper, or what prayer for merchants rich in cargos of despair, who drive a loathsome traffic, gauge and span, and buy the muscles and the bones of man? The tender ties of father, husband, friend, all bonds of nature in that moment end; and each endures, while yet he draws his breath, a stroke as fatal as the scythe of death. He likes the "Graveyard School" of Poetry; see Bryant advise when one's own time comes to join the "innumerable caravan." . . . approach thy grave, like one who wraps the drapery of his couch about him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. My husband, do not read any more sad poems about the end of time. Then write, my husband, write; about the quickly passing years, and how peace shall fill this land. How we shall all walk as brothers, and sisters one day, hand in hand. Abraham Lincoln, my dear husband, write of peace. Yes, write of peace; that is enough . . . enough for now. Emilie stares at me...awestruck . . . and does not understand my patience.