JUMPingOFFthePages

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