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 (1819 - 1892)