February 2024 Poem

Poetry in large letters surrounded by books and a typewriter


O Captain! My Captain!
by Walt Whitman 

(about the death of Abraham Lincoln)

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.