O Captain My Captain

       1
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.

                      2
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.

                      3
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, from The Portable Walt Whitman

T. S. Poetry

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