Walt Whitman (1819–1892). Leaves of Grass. 1900.
193. 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! 5 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; 10For 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, 15 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; 20 Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! But I, with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.
193. 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! 5 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; 10For 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, 15 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; 20 Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! But I, with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.
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