By Walt Whitman I. 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. II. 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. III. 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
Scott Vanatter