Motes of the dust as it streams, yet touched with the light of God’s purpose!
ABRAHAM LINCOLN
February 12, 1909
I
The centuries pass, yea as a dream they pass.
Nations and races, with all that they have sown,
Sink as the prairie-grass,
By the invisible scythe silently mown.
The wind breathes over them, and the place thereof
Knows them no more.
But the unsounded sky still broods above,