When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd,
And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the night,
I mourn'd, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.
159 years since Lincoln was assassinated. Sadder because another assassinated pigeon & I'm afraid it's my baby, my darling PiJean. The dead bird is on its back & torn open so I can't see it's feathers to tell if he's one I know. I thought I'd seen PJ since there was a body but now I'm not sure. What a terrible witness I would be. Read Whitman's poem, everybody!