Monday, August 11

Oh Captain! My Captain!


O Captain! My Captain! our fearful trip is done; 
The ship has weather'd 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 ribbon'd 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 anchor'd 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. 

- Walt Whitman

1 comment:

  1. I don't think I've ever read that entire poem. So fitting.