[In December, 1847, when Lincoln was stumping for Clay, he crossed into
Indiana and revisited his old home. He writes: "That part of the country
is within itself as unpoetical as any spot on earth; but still seeing it
and its objects and inhabitants aroused feelings in me which were
certainly poetry; though whether my expression of these feelings is
poetry, is quite another question."]

Near twenty years have passed away
Since here I bid farewell
To woods and fields, and scenes of play,
And playmates loved so well.

Where many were, but few remain
Of old familiar things;
But seeing them to mind again
The lost and absent brings.

The friends I left that parting day,
How changed, as time has sped!
Young childhood grown, strong manhood gray,
And half of all are dead.

I hear the loved survivors tell
How naught from death could save,
Till every sound appears a knell,
And every spot a grave.

I range the fields with pensive tread,
And pace the hollow rooms,