“O Captain My Captain”
a poem by Walt Whitman
O
Captain my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The
ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The
port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While
follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But
O heart! heart! heart!
O
the bleeding drops of red,
Where
on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen
cold and dead.
O
Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise
up--for you the flag is flung for you the bugle trills,
For
you bouquets and ribboned wreaths for you the shores a-crowding,
For
you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here
Captain! dear father!
This
arm beneath your head!
It
is some dream that on the deck,
You've
fallen cold and dead.
My
Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My
father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The
ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From
fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult
O shores, and ring O bells!
But
I, with mournful tread,
Walk
the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen
cold and dead.