Who are the shadow-forms crowding the night? What shadows of men? The stilled star-night is high with these brooding spirits-- Their shoulders rise on the Earth-rim, and they are great presences in heaven-- They move through the stars like outlined winds in young-leaved maples. Lilacs bloom for Walt Whitman And lilacs for Abraham Lincoln. Deeply the nation throbs with a world's anguish-- But it sleeps, and I on the housetops Commune with souls long dead who guard our land at midnight, A strength in each hushed heart-- I seem to hear the Atlantic moaning on our shores with the plaint of the dying And rolling on our shores with the rumble of battle.... I seem to see my country growing golden toward California, And, as fields of daisies, a people, with slumbering up-turned faces Leaned over by Two Brothers, And the greatness that is gone. Lilacs bloom for Walt Whitman And lilacs for Abraham Lincoln. Spring runs over the land, A young girl, light-footed, eager... For I hear a song that is faint and sweet with first love, Out of the West, fresh with the grass and the timber, But dreamily soothing the sleepers... I listen: I drink it deep. Softly the Spring sings, Softly and clearly: "I open lilacs for the beloved, Lilacs for the lost, the dead. And, see, for the living, I bring sweet strawberry blossoms, And I bring buttercups, and I bring to the woods anemones and blue bells... I open lilacs for the beloved, And when my fluttering garment drifts through dusty cities, And blows on hills, and brushes the inland sea, Over you, sleepers, over you, tired sleepers, A fragrant memory falls... I open love in the shut heart, I open lilacs for the beloved." Lilacs bloom for Walt Whitman And lilacs for Abraham Lincoln. Was that the Spring that sang, opening locked hearts, And is remembrance mine? For I know these two great shadows in the spacious night, Shadows folding America close between them, Close to the heart... And I know how my own lost youth grew up blessedly in their spirit, And how the morning song of the might bard Sent me out from my dreams to the living America, To the chanting seas, to the piney hills, down the railroad vistas, Out into the streets of Manhattan when the whistles blew at seven, Down to the mills of Pittsburgh and the rude faces of labor... And I know how the grave great music of that other, Music in which lost armies sang requiems, And the vision of that gaunt, that great and solemn figure, And the graven face, the deep eyes, the mouth, O human-hearted brother, Dedicated anew my undevoted heart to America, my land. Lilacs bloom for Walt Whitman And lilacs for Abraham Lincoln. Now in this hour I was suppliant for these two brothers, And I said: Your land has need: Half-awakened and blindly we grope in the great world.... What strength may we take from our Past, What promise hold for our future?