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.
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.
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
19
