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O CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN! O Captain, my Captain!
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.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse
Exult O shores, and ring O bells, But I with mournful tread Walk the deck my Captain lies, To analyze
my Captain!
O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies Fallen cold and dead. O Captain!
my Captain!
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse
But I with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, The most prejudiced will not deny that that
He explains his inspiration thus: Speech is the twin of my vision, it is unequal to measure itself, It
He explains the limit of his happiness: I merely stir, press, feel with my fingers, and am happy, To
touch my person to some one else's is about as much as I can stand .
Whenever he does this he writes lines that will live—notably, his "O Captain, my Captain," inspired by
Grass" will remain a real contribution to the thought of America, and some of the additional pieces, "My
Captain, O My Captain," "Song of the Banner at Daybreak," "Out of the Cradle, Endlessly Rocking," once
Y.) and My Life on It as Child and Young Man…Printing Office—Old Brooklyn…Lafayette…Broadway Sights…My
I have been exercised deeply about it my whole life.)
Again he was ask'd to yield, this time by a rebel captain.
The rebel captain then shot him—but at the same instant he shot the captain.
From today I enter upon my 64th year.
few pieces which are marked by the "piano-tune" quality that he derides—the true and tender lyric of "My
Captain" and the fine poem on "Ethiopia Saluting the Colors."
puto translates from Latin to "I am a human being: I regard nothing of human concern as foreign to my
puto translates from Latin to "I am a human being: I regard nothing of human concern as foreign to my
My feet strike an apex of the apices of the stairs, On every step bunches of ages, and larger bunches
Cycles ferried my cradle, rowing and rowing like cheerful boatmen, For room to me stars kept aside in
I open my scuttle at night and see the far-sprinkled systems, And all I see multiplied as high as I can
; No friend of mine takes his ease in my chair;— I have no chair, no church, no philosophy, I lead no
man to a dinner-table, library, exchange; But each man and each woman of you I lead upon a knoll, My
Was't charged against my chants they had forgotten art? . . .
son and my comrade, dropt at my side that day, One look I but gave, which your dear eyes return'd with
do I not see my love fluttering out among the breakers?
Loud I call to you, my love! High and clear I shoot my voice over the waves.
Hither, my love! Here I am! here!
To-day my soul is full of the love of the body.
"Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul. ∗∗∗∗∗ While they discuss
The first doubt lodged in my mind against the claims of the Christian Church and ministry was the first
To my surprise and horror, they spent the whole time in regaling one another with smutty yarns.
I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.
. ∗ ∗ ∗ The successive growth-stages of my infancy, childhood, youth and manhood were all pass'd on Long
–49) and I split off with the Radicals, which led to rows with the boss and 'the party,' and I lost my
And then such lapses as these: By my great oak—sturdy, vital, green—give feet thick at the butt.
An hour or so after breakfast I wended my way down to the recesses of the aforesaid dell ∗ ∗ ∗ It was
just the place and time for my Adamic air-bath and flesh-brushing from head to foot.
forced to remember another son of the people, Robert Burns, and one involuntarily thinks of his "O, my
Love's like a red, red rose, That's newly sprung in June: O my Love's like a melodie That's sweetly
(I loved a certain person ardently and my love was unreturned, Yet out of my love have I written these
hardly patience with a man who could offer the public lines like these, and call them poetry: "I tucked my
trowser-ends into my boots, and went and had a good time."
nights—some literary meditations—books, authors examined, Carlyle, Poe, Emerson tried (always under my
cedar-tree, in the open air, and never in the library)—mostly the scenes everybody sees, but some of my
to the spring under the willows—musical as soft-clinking glasses—pouring a sizeable stream, thick as my
for the buoyant and healthy alone, but meant just as well for ailing folk:— "Who knows (I have it in my
fancy, my ambition) but the pages now ensuing may carry ray of sun, or smell of grass or corn, or call
His text is—and it is a stalwart text: "I stand in my place, with my own day, here!" II.
"I resist anything better than my own diversity," he says.
Clifford in his essay on "Cosmic Emotion:" "I open my scuttle at night and see the far-sprinkled far-
"My sun has his sun, and round him obediently wheels, He joins with his partners a group of superior
Hence from my shuddering sight to never more return that Show of blacken'd mutilated corpses!
language: "As I have looked over the proof-sheets of the preceding pages, I have once or twice feared that my
here—said: "Only that while I can't answer them at all, I feel more settled than ever to adhere to my
past—that I have always invoked that future, and surrounded myself with it, before or while singing my
For illustration, he gives utterance to phrases like this: "I effuse my flesh in eddies and drift it
He himself says, "Nor will my poems do good only, they will do just as much harm, perhaps more."
Sometimes I took up my quarters in the hospital, and slept or watch'd there several nights in succession
excitements and physical deprivations and lamentable sights,) and, of course, the most profound lesson of my
barefooted every few minutes now and then in some neighboring black ooze, for unctuous mud- baths to my