Top 100 Poems of All Time -- "I Hear America Singing" by Walt Whitman

There are so many great poems, great poets, undiscovered talent and surprises in the world of poetry, verse, and art.  You just need to have access to it all.  Today, we're very lucky.  With the accessibility of the internet, laptops, wireless everywhere and now cell phones - you CAN stay on top of everything.

Today's poem is one of Walt Whitman's all time great poems - forgotten by me since I began this blog 5 years ago.  But reading an article today in the London Times (online, of course) about poetry, this great poem was remembered as one of the 10 greatest poems ever (interesting opinion of an American poem in British culture).  So -- here it is for you to enjoy!

Oh yeah, don't forget the picture I choose of Whitman, which is the "middle-aged guy", they way he looked for most of his life, since I find the "bearded one" quite formidable.  Enjoy!

I Hear America Singing

by Walt Whitman

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,

Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong,

The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,

The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,

The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck,

The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands,

The wood-cutter’s song, the ploughboy’s on his way in the morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown,
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the girl sewing or washing,

Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,

The day what belongs to the day — at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,

Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.

POEM OF THE DAY -- Are you the New Person Drawn Toward Me?

Are you the New Person Drawn Toward Me?

By Walt Whitman

ARE you the new person drawn toward me?
To begin with, take warning—I am surely far differ-
ent from what you suppose;
Do you suppose you will find in me your ideal?
Do you think it so easy to have me become your
lover?
Do you think the friendship of me would be unalloy'd
satisfaction?
Do you think I am trusty and faithful?

Do you see no further than this façade—this smooth
and tolerant manner of me?
Do you suppose yourself advancing on real ground
toward a real heroic man?
Have you no thought, O dreamer, that it may be all
maya, illusion?

Poem of the Day -- "Ode to Walt Whitman" by Federico Garcia Lorca

 This piece by the great Spanish poet and playwright was written after - and influenced by - his time in New York in the early-mid 1920's.  Lorca, a communist, eroticizes Walt Whitman and circumsizes capitalist life in New York city simultaneously. 

Lorca influenced so many of the great poets of the 20th century and across many different poetic forms and genres, we're going to delve a bit deeper into his influence on such greats as Pablo Neruda and Allen Ginsberg, as well as popular artists Joan Baez, the Clash and others.

Ode to Walt Whitman

By Federico Garcia Lorca

By the East River and the Bronx
boys were singing, exposing their waists
with the wheel, with oil, leather, and the hammer.
Ninety thousand miners taking silver from the rocks
and children drawing stairs and perspectives.

But none of them could sleep,
none of them wanted to be the river,
none of them loved the huge leaves
or the shoreline's blue tongue.

By the East River and the Queensboro
boys were battling with industry
and the Jews sold to the river faun
the rose of circumcision,
and over bridges and rooftops, the mouth of the sky emptied
herds of bison driven by the wind.

But none of them paused,
none of them wanted to be a cloud,
none of them looked for ferns
or the yellow wheel of a tambourine.

As soon as the moon rises
the pulleys will spin to alter the sky;
a border of needles will besiege memory
and the coffins will bear away those who don't work.

New York, mire,
New York, mire and death.
What angel is hidden in your cheek?
Whose perfect voice will sing the truths of wheat?
Who, the terrible dream of your stained anemones?

Not for a moment, Walt Whitman, lovely old man,
have I failed to see your beard full of butterflies,
nor your corduroy shoulders frayed by the moon,
nor your thighs pure as Apollo's,
nor your voice like a column of ash,
old man, beautiful as the mist,
you moaned like a bird
with its sex pierced by a needle.
Enemy of the satyr,
enemy of the vine,
and lover of bodies beneath rough cloth...

Not for a moment, virile beauty,
who among mountains of coal, billboards, and railroads,
dreamed of becoming a river and sleeping like a river
with that comrade who would place in your breast
the small ache of an ignorant leopard.

Not for a moment, Adam of blood, Macho,
man alone at sea, Walt Whitman, lovely old man,
because on penthouse roofs,
gathered at bars,
emerging in bunches from the sewers,
trembling between the legs of chauffeurs,
or spinning on dance floors wet with absinthe,
the faggots, Walt Whitman, point you out.

He's one, too! That's right! And they land
on your luminous chaste beard,
blonds from the north, blacks from the sands,
crowds of howls and gestures,
like cats or like snakes,
the faggots, Walt Whitman, the faggots,
clouded with tears, flesh for the whip,
the boot, or the teeth of the lion tamers.

He's one, too! That's right! Stained fingers
point to the shore of your dream
when a friend eats your apple
with a slight taste of gasoline
and the sun sings in the navels
of boys who play under bridges.

But you didn't look for scratched eyes,
nor the darkest swamp where someone submerges children,
nor frozen saliva,
nor the curves slit open like a toad's belly
that the faggots wear in cars and on terraces
while the moon lashes them on the street corners of terror.

You looked for a naked body like a river.
Bull and dream who would join wheel with seaweed,
father of your agony, camellia of your death,
who would groan in the blaze of your hidden equator.

Because it's all right if a man doesn't look for his delight
in tomorrow morning's jungle of blood.
The sky has shores where life is avoided
and there are bodies that shouldn't repeat themselves in the dawn.

Agony, agony, dream, ferment, and dream.
This is the world, my friend, agony, agony.
Bodies decompose beneath the city clocks,
war passes by in tears, followed by a million gray rats,
the rich give their mistresses
small illuminated dying things,
and life is neither noble, nor good, nor sacred.

Man is able, if he wishes, to guide his desire
through a vein of coral or a heavenly naked body.
Tomorrow, loves will become stones, and Time
a breeze that drowses in the branches.

That's why I don't raise my voice, old Walt Whitman,
against the little boy who writes
the name of a girl on his pillow,
nor against the boy who dresses as a bride
in the darkness of the wardrobe,
nor against the solitary men in casinos
who drink prostitution's water with revulsion,
nor against the men with that green look in their eyes
who love other men and burn their lips in silence.

But yes against you, urban faggots,
tumescent flesh and unclean thoughts.
Mothers of mud. Harpies. Sleepless enemies
of the love that bestows crowns of joy.

Always against you, who give boys
drops of foul death with bitter poison.
Always against you,
Fairies of North America,
Pájaros of Havana,
Jotos of Mexico,
Sarasas of Cádiz,
Apios of Seville,
Cancos of Madrid,
Floras of Alicante,
Adelaidas of Portugal.

Faggots of the world, murderers of doves!
Slaves of women. Their bedroom bitches.
Opening in public squares like feverish fans
or ambushed in rigid hemlock landscapes.

No quarter given! Death
spills from your eyes
and gathers gray flowers at the mire's edge.
No quarter given! Attention!
Let the confused, the pure,
the classical, the celebrated, the supplicants
close the doors of the bacchanal to you.

And you, lovely Walt Whitman, stay asleep on the Hudson's banks
with your beard toward the pole, openhanded.
Soft clay or snow, your tongue calls for
comrades to keep watch over your unbodied gazelle.

Sleep on, nothing remains.
Dancing walls stir the prairies
and America drowns itself in machinery and lament.
I want the powerful air from the deepest night
to blow away flowers and inscriptions from the arch where you sleep,
and a black child to inform the gold-craving whites
that the kingdom of grain has arrived. 

-

POEM OF THE DAY -- "Leaves of Grass 13" by Walt Whitman

Returning to Leaves of Grass after a long hiatus through Surrealism and protest, it's nice to be back. This section of Leaves of Grass 13 Poem of Procreation is one of my favorites and stands out as one of the most sensual pieces of Whitman work.

Leaves of Grass

13 -- Poem of Procreation

By Walt Whitman

A WOMAN waits for me -- she contains all,
nothing is lacking,
Yet all were lacking, if sex were lacking, or if
the moisture of the right man were lacking.

Sex contains all,
Bodies, souls, meanings, proofs, purities, delica-
cies, results, promulgations,
Songs, commands, health, pride, the maternal
mystery, the semitic milk,
All hopes, benefactions, bestowals,
All the passions, loves, beauties, delights of the
earth,
All the governments, judges, gods, followed per-
sons of the earth,
These are contained in sex, as parts of itself
and justifications of itself.

Without shame the man I like knows and avows
the deliciousness of his sex,
Without shame the woman I like knows and
avows hers.

_______________________________________________

O I will fetch bully breeds of children yet!
They cannot be fetched, I say, on less terms than
mine,
Electric growth from the male, and rich ripe fibre
from the female, are the terms.

I will dismiss myself from impassive women,
I will go stay with her who waits for me, and
with those women that are warm-blooded and
sufficient for me,
I see that they understand me, and do not deny
me,
I see that they are worthy of me -- so I will be
the robust husband of those women!
They are not one jot less than I am,
They are tanned in the face by shining suns and
blowing winds,
Their flesh has the old divine suppleness and
strength,
They know how to swim, row, ride, wrestle,
shoot, run, strike, retreat, advance, resist,
defend themselves,
They are ultimate in their own right -- they are
calm, clear, well-possessed of themselves.

I draw you close to me, you women!
I cannot let you go, I would do you good,
I am for you, and you are for me, not only for our

_________________________________________

Enveloped in you sleep greater heroes and bards,
They refuse to awake at the touch of any man but
me.

It is I, you women -- I make my way,
I am stern, acrid, large, undissuadable -- but I
love you,
I do not hurt you any more than is necessary for
you,
I pour the stuff to start sons and daughters fit for
These States -- I press with slow rude muscle,
I brace myself effectually -- I listen to no en-
treaties,
I dare not withdraw till I deposite what has so
long accumulated within me.

Through you I drain the pent-up rivers of myself,
In you I wrap a thousand onward years,
On you I graft the grafts of the best-beloved of
me and of America,
The drops I distil upon you are drops of fierce
and athletic girls, and of new artists, musi-
cians, singers,
The babes I beget upon you are to beget babes in
their turn,
I shall demand perfect men and women out of my
love-spendings,
I shall expect them to interpenetrate with others,
as I and you interpenetrate now,

__________________________________________

I shall count on the fruits of the gushing showers
of them, as I count on the fruits of the gush-
ing showers I give now,
I shall look for loving crops from the birth, life,
death, immortality I plant so lovingly now.

Top 100 or So Poems...POEM OF THE DAY -- "Leaves of Grass 11" by Walt Whitman

I love this stanza of Walt Whitmans classic, "Leaves of Grass".  I can just picture the lovely young woman staring out at the boys at the beach (Long Island, where Whitman lived I presume), full of excitement and naughty thoughts from behind the translucent draperies, the warmth of her gaze as it passes along the beach.  


I love the spirituality of the moment in which she chooses the one young man who may not be the most beautiful physical specimen, but who she connects with on a subatomic level.


She appears to choose this young man with her spiritual hand - which deems him of superior character.


And she plays with them on the beach, unseen, I assume settling with her lover behind the dunes.

This exercise in Walt Whitman immersion has taught me that Whitman is among the most spiritual and accessible of the American poets.  Why didn't I see this before?  I think perhaps it is the "traditional" picture of Walt (old man with white hair/white beard) - which is NOT the true picture of the vitality of the man.


This picture does it for me.  He's real.


Enjoy this weeks installment!


Leaves of Grass 


By Walt Whitman


11

Twenty-eight young men bathe by the shore;
Twenty-eight young men, and all so friendly:
Twenty-eight years of womanly life, and all so lonesome.

She owns the fine house by the rise of the bank;
She hides, handsome and richly drest, aft the blinds of the window.

Which of the young men does she like the best?
Ah, the homeliest of them is beautiful to her.

Where are you off to, lady? for I see you;
You splash in the water there, yet stay stock still in your room.

Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth bather;
The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved them.

The beards of the young men glisten’d with wet, it ran from their long hair:
Little streams pass’d all over their bodies.

An unseen hand also pass’d over their bodies;
It descended tremblingly from their temples and ribs.

The young men float on their backs—their white bellies bulge to the sun—they do not ask who seizes fast to them;
They do not know who puffs and declines with pendant and bending arch;
They do not think whom they souse with spray.


-

POEM OF THE DAY -- "Leaves of Grass 6" by Walt Whitman

My favorite section of Whitmans classic poem, the "Leaves of Grass" section.  

This one really speaks for itself...enjoy this classic!


Leaves of Grass

by Walt Whitman

6

A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is, any more than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer, designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say, Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation.

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic;
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as among white;
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same.

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

Tenderly will I use you, curling grass;
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men;
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them;
It may be you are from old people, and from women, and from offspring taken soon out of their mothers’ laps;
And here you are the mothers’ laps.

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers;
Darker than the colorless beards of old men;
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues!
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing.

I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women and children?

They are alive and well somewhere;
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death;
And if ever there was, it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,
And ceas’d the moment life appear’d.

All goes onward and outward—nothing collapses;
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.


-

POEM OF THE DAY -- Leaves of Grass 5 -- By Walt Whitman

Discovery of one's soul.  Or perhaps more aptly, how to discover one's soul according to Walt Whitman.  No matter, to discuss ones soul in poetry takes soul itself so -- enjoy part 5 of this epic American poem.



Leaves of Grass -- 


5

By Walt Whitman

I believe in you, my Soul—the other I am must not abase itself to you;
And you must not be abased to the other.

Loafe with me on the grass—loose the stop from your throat;
Not words, not music or rhyme I want—not custom or lecture, not even the best;
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.

I mind how once we lay, such a transparent summer morning;
How you settled your head athwart my hips, and gently turn’d over upon me,
And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue to my bare-stript heart,
And reach’d till you felt my beard, and reach’d till you held my feet.

Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass all the argument of the earth;
And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own,
And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own;
And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women my sisters and lovers;
And that a kelson of the creation is love;
And limitless are leaves, stiff or drooping in the fields;
And brown ants in the little wells beneath them;
And mossy scabs of the worm fence, and heap’d stones, elder, mullen and poke-weed.


-

POEM OF THE DAY - "Song of Myself 4" by Walt Whitman

Wow.  Compassionating.   I love the word.  I find it in various online dictionaries - after a level or two of digging of course - it doesn't even google well - and I can't follow any links to find it used in a sentence, like all other forms of "Compassionate".  Compassionating.  Just the fact that Whitman would use it in a poem (there's your example, hello) gives it a meaning that justifies its existence as a word, in print, and even as a way to live a life.


Abe Lincoln, Mother Theresa, Jesus, Ghandi, the Pope -- these are people who live or have lived their lives compassionating.

I think that Whitman's "Song of Myself" was an evolving discovery of various aspects of the human soul - as he discovers that such qualities as compassion and love are far more important than the material trappings and competitive nature of life as it spins on around him.

That's just what I think.  I have gained a new respect for Walt Whitman since I've re-studied this poem, letting it step out of the shadow of my heavy handed high school english teacher - into the sunlight.


You may have also noticed I've shed the standard pictures of an ancient, alien Walt Whitman with wide face and heavy white beard - in favor of the one above.  This guy, Walt Whitman (during his prime by the way) - looks like someone I can relate to - not the scragly old God-Like character we usually come across.
 
 

Song of Myself 4

by Walt Whitman

4

Trippers and askers surround me;
People I meet—the effect upon me of my early life, or the ward and city I live in, or the nation,
The latest dates, discoveries, inventions, societies, authors old and new,
My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues,
The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love,
The sickness of one of my folks, or of myself, or ill-doing, or loss or lack of money, or depressions or exaltations;
Battles, the horrors of fratricidal war, the fever of doubtful news, the fitful events;
These come to me days and nights, and go from me again,
But they are not the Me myself.

Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am;
Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary;
Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest,
Looking with side-curved head, curious what will come next;
Both in and out of the game, and watching and wondering at it.

Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with linguists and contenders;
I have no mockings or arguments—I witness and wait.
-

POEM OF THE DAY -- "Song of Myself 3" by Walt Whitman

So sorry for the hiatus, friends; it was time to purge - the holidays are here and sometimes this can be a difficult time of year, bringing on a mix of (sometimes negative) emotions which can drain the soul, and take a creative toll.

Picking up where we left off, I should have remembered this 3rd section of Whitmans wonderful epic "Song of Myself" (we use the final 1900 edition, but sometimes offer earlier editions for interesting comparison) during the last week or two.

Simply, chill.  What goes on around doesn't really matter or change the spiritual reality of things - and a simple change of goggles reveals good no matter where you are.

Click the link below to purchase the original version of the poem featured in the 1855 edition of Leaves of Grass - Whitmans wonderful collection which features this poem in it's entirety of course.

Song of Myself 

By Walt Whitman

3

I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the beginning and the end;
But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.

There was never any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now;
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.

Urge, and urge, and urge;
Always the procreant urge of the world.

Out of the dimness opposite equals advance—always substance and increase, always sex;
Always a knit of identity—always distinction—always a breed of life.

To elaborate is no avail—learn’d and unlearn’d feel that it is so.

Sure as the most certain sure, plumb in the uprights, well entretied, braced in the beams,
Stout as a horse, affectionate, haughty, electrical,
I and this mystery, here we stand.

Clear and sweet is my Soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my Soul.

Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by the seen,
Till that becomes unseen, and receives proof in its turn.
Showing the best, and dividing it from the worst, age vexes age;
Knowing the perfect fitness and equanimity of things, while they discuss I am silent, and go bathe and admire myself.

Welcome is every organ and attribute of me, and of any man hearty and clean;
Not an inch, nor a particle of an inch, is vile, and none shall be less familiar than the rest.

I am satisfied—I see, dance, laugh, sing:
As the hugging and loving Bed-fellow sleeps at my side through the night, and withdraws at the peep of the day, with stealthy tread,
Leaving me baskets cover’d with white towels, swelling the house with their plenty,
Shall I postpone my acceptation and realization, and scream at my eyes,
That they turn from gazing after and down the road,
And forthwith cipher and show me a cent,
Exactly the contents of one, and exactly the contents of two, and which is ahead?

-

POEM OF THE DAY "Song of Myself 2." by Walt Whitman

Here is the second section from Whitman's masterpiece from his "Leaves of Grass" collection.

Addressing the reader, establishing a relationship, Whitman was way ahead of his time, especially at self promotion, even in his poems.  Read his works for yourself.  Go with your own gut feel, that is all that matters in the end.

Do you have a favorite line here?  I know I do...



Song of Myself

By Walt Whitman

2.

The smoke of my own breath;

Echoes, ripples, buzz’d whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and vine;
My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing of blood and air
through my lungs;
The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore, and dark-color’d sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn;
The sound of the belch’d words of my voice, words loos’d to the eddies of the wind;
A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms;
The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag;
The delight alone, or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields and hill-sides;
The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising from bed and meeting the sun.

Have you reckon’d a thousand acres much? have you reckon’d the earth much?
Have you practis’d so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?

Stop this day and night with me, and you shall possess the origin of all poems;
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun—(there are millions of suns left;)
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books;
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me:
You shall listen to all sides, and filter them from yourself.

-

POEM OF THE DAY -- "Song of Myself" by Walt Whitman

Here's an American classic for you.

This poem was first published in Walt Whitman's classic volume "Leaves of Grass" in 1855.  "Song of Myself" began it's journey  as "Walt Whitman. An American" and "Walt Whitman", and after multiple edits through many editions of "Leaves of Grass", culminated it's journey as "Song of Myself", divided into multiple epic sections, in 1888.

In this series of Poem of the Day, we'll attempt to focus on some of the differences in the various versions as they are discovered  through various sources.  The first edition (1855) will always precede the final or subsequently published editions.

Remember that the Great Civil War occurred in the middle of this.

No matter which sections we compare, though, "Song of Myself" remains a valid spiritual commentary on the feelings of the day, and if you rely on history books and documentaries, the spirit of the day is lost forever.  

Amazingly, the spirit of the day lives on -- unfettered by time -- in the poems of Walt Whitman.

The classic "Leaves of Grass" is available below for purchase.  Enjoy this series:

Song of Myself

by Walt Whitman

1

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,

And what I assume you shall assume,

For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,

I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air,

Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same,

I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,

Hoping to cease not till death.

Creeds and schools in abeyance,

Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,

I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,

Nature without check with original energy.

1
I CELEBRATE myself;
And what I assume you shall assume;
For every atom belonging to me, as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my Soul;
I lean and loafe at my ease, observing a spear of summer grass.

Houses and rooms are full of perfumes—the shelves are crowded with
perfumes;
I breathe the fragrance myself, and know it and like it;
The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.

The atmosphere is not a perfume—it has no taste of the distillation—it
is odorless;
It is for my mouth forever—I am in love with it;
I will go to the bank by the wood, and become undisguised and naked;
I am mad for it to be in contact with me. 

-

Top 100 or so Poems - POEM OF THE DAY - "O Captain! My Captain!" by Walt Whitman

11/16/2011 -- This classic Whitman poem has been selected for our "Top 100" series, as it is found in most similar anthologies. When picking classic english language poems, of course we add our own twist to the list. Most of the poetry on the blog, including that of Thomas Herr, has a certain "edge" to it; a statement is implied, a way of life is the stimuli, the poet himself may be controversial, or the message is important or the style is unique and perhaps unconventional.

Several of Whitmans poems qualify for this list, which folds "popularity" into the mix as well.

Another contender from Whitman will be "Leaves of Grass" - which is huge and might not be suitable (in size) for the blog...

Anyway, here is the original post and the wonderful poem itself; enjoy!

TH

Ok, here's a classic none other than the famous American icon, Walt Whitman, born and raised on Long Island...a mournful ode to Abraham Lincoln. This week, poems from guys that begin with a W. What better way to start than with a guy that has two.

Enjoy WW!

O Captain! My Captain!

by Walt Whitman

1
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.

2
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.

3
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.