A Lover, cloaked in sorrow,
knelt beside his woman’s stone.
His Ann was only twenty two
when Heaven called her home.
Their love affair was secret
to all but her closest kin.
She had been pledged to marry
one of their long absent friends.
Those were dark days in New Salem.
Typhoid claimed her life.
Lincoln thought to end his own-
perhaps with rope or knife.
In those days friends feared for his life
So dark his mood became.
Some thought him suicidal
whom dark depression claimed.
A figure cloaked in sorrow,
deprived of a life with Ann.
Embraced his life of martyrdom
when the moment met the man.
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 10:18 AM UTC
A Lover, cloaked in sorrow,
knelt beside his woman’s stone.
His Ann was only twenty two
when Heaven called her home.
Their love affair was secret
to all but her closest kin.
She had been pledged to marry
one of their long absent friends.
Those were dark days in New Salem.
Typhoid claimed her life.
Lincoln thought to end his own-
perhaps with rope or knife.
In those days friends feared for his life
So dark his mood became.
Some thought him suicidal
whom dark depression claimed.
A figure cloaked in sorrow,
deprived of a life with Ann.
Embraced his life of martyrdom
when the moment met the man.
A poem about Ann Rutledge, Lincoln's supposed first love.
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