The Nocturnal Dream
Of Abraham Lincoln

A poem about the foreboding of a President
By Father John R. Green
An Episcopal Poet

When gather the summoned
in White House halls,

Blossoms pleasantry,
merriment and stately balls;

But as I strolled
near the assembled throng,

Dread wailing and moaning
signified something was wrong.

Hastening anxiously
to determine why,

The weeping, the sorrow,
the mournful cry;

In answer without
turning a head,

The President is dead!
The President is dead!

Stunned and bewildered
I apprehensively pressed

Until I sighted my frame lifeless,
a bouquet on my breast;

Lying solemnly
in honored state,

This haunting dream,
I to you relate.

Epilogue

Awakening to tragedy
on Good Friday night,

Attending Ford Theatre,
within assassin's sight;

Lying solemnly with
a bouquet on his breast,

His life a testimony
to America's best.