O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done; |
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| 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; |
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| 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; |
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| 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
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© 2012 admin
