Abraham Lincoln, the 16th president of the US, was assassinated on April 15, 1865, after winning the American Civil War and abolishing slavery. The poet Walt Whitman idolised Lincoln and wrote this impassioned lament.

WHEN LILACS LAST IN THE DOORYARD BlOOM’D

When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d,

And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night,

I mourn’d, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.

Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring,

Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west,

And thought of him I love.

O powerful western fallen star!

O shades of night – O moody tearful night!

O great star disappear’d – O the black murk that hides the star!

O cruel hands that hold me powerless – O helpless soul of me!

O harsh surrounding cloud that will not free my soul. . .

Coffin that passes through lanes and streets,

Through day and night with the great cloud darkening the land,

With the pomp of the inloop’d flags with the cities draped in black,

With the show of the States themselves as of crepe-veil’d women standing,

With processions long and winding and the flambeaux of the night,

With the countless torches lit, with the silent sea of faces and the unbared heads,

With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces,

With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn,

With all the mournful voices of the dirges

pour’d around the coffin,

The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs

Where amid these you journey,

With the tolling bells’ perpetual clang,

Here, coffin that slowly passes,

I give you a sprig of lilac.