Verse | John Adams

On this day in 1767, John Quincy Adams was born. At 80, he collapsed at his desk in the House of Representatives: mid-debate, mid-sentence, maybe, still arguing, still burning.

By then, he’d been everything the Republic could ask for: minister, senator, secretary of state, president. He owed no one anything. And yet he stayed. Still showing up. Still fighting.

That’s the part we forget.

Not the portraits: powdered, remote, fixed in their antique symmetry. Not the presidency, which nearly broke him. The thing that lingers is sharper. Less ornamental. A man who chose duty over rest. Service over satisfaction. A man who believed you told the truth, even when no one clapped. Especially then.

The poem traces his name, but also the outline of a man who stood in rooms where most would sit.

Even at the end. Especially at the end.

Scenes from the life of John Quincy Adams

Justice was his compass, even when alone,

Over power and praise, he chose the heavy stone.

Honor over ease—he stood where few would tread,

Never flinching, even when his cause seemed dead.

Quiet in demeanor, yet fierce in his fight,

Unwilling to yield when truth was in sight.

In halls of power, he rose, then fell, then rose—

Not for fame, but for the country he chose.

Congress became his final, proud stage,

Yearning for justice, undimmed by age.

Amidst the clamor, he heard conscience speak,

Defending the voiceless, the silenced, the weak.

An old man with thunder, still making his stand,

Marching for freedom with death close at hand.

Stern in his bearing, yet noble and clear.

There aren’t many who leave power and grow larger in its absence. Adams did.

The presidency didn’t crown him: it cracked him open. What came after was something harder, more elemental. They called him the “Hell-Hound of Slavery.” He took the floor in defense of the right to petition, stood with the Amistad captives, warned of what was coming long before the sky turned dark.

He was not warm.

He was not easy.

But he was right.

We don’t just mark the day he died. We mark the kind of clarity that’s gone missing. The kind that doesn’t check the polls first. The kind that doesn’t care if you clap.

Adams reminded us that greatness rarely smiles for the painting. That public service can outlive power. That some men keep speaking, even as the light goes out, because silence would be worse.

There was no crowd at the end.

Only the cause.

And for him, that was enough.