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Someone found a likely copy of a long lost suicide poem by Lincoln. Of course, the article doesn't bother to quote the entire poem, but this is what they give:
Yes! I’ve resolved the deed to do,
And this the place to do it:
This heart I’ll rush a dagger through
Though I in hell should rue it!
[...]
Sweet steel! Come forth from out your sheath,
And glist’ning, speak your powers;
Rip up the organs of my breath,
And draw my blood in showers!
I strike! It quivers in that heart
Which drives me to this end;
I draw and kiss the bloody dart,
My last—my only friend!
Not too bad, for angsty goth poetry by a future president. I'll post the rest of it once someone bothers to make it available to this here interweb thing.
In other weird news, French royalists finally got a funeral for the 200 year old heart of Louis XVII. French royalists? I suppose if world events must approach fiction, Pratchett is better than most to mimic.
Yes! I’ve resolved the deed to do,
And this the place to do it:
This heart I’ll rush a dagger through
Though I in hell should rue it!
[...]
Sweet steel! Come forth from out your sheath,
And glist’ning, speak your powers;
Rip up the organs of my breath,
And draw my blood in showers!
I strike! It quivers in that heart
Which drives me to this end;
I draw and kiss the bloody dart,
My last—my only friend!
Not too bad, for angsty goth poetry by a future president. I'll post the rest of it once someone bothers to make it available to this here interweb thing.
In other weird news, French royalists finally got a funeral for the 200 year old heart of Louis XVII. French royalists? I suppose if world events must approach fiction, Pratchett is better than most to mimic.