an old favorite

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.

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.

my captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;

my father does not feel my arm, he has not pulse nor will;

the ship is anchored 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