| 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 or 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. |
| |
| Walt Whitman. |
