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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
Loud I call to you, my love!
who I am, my love.
Of sea-captains young or old, and the mates, and of all intrepid sailors, Of the few, very choice, taciturn
rest, A spiritual woven signal for all nations, emblem of man elate above death, Token of all brave captains
and mates, And all that went down doing their duty, Reminiscent of them, twined from all intrepid captains
Loud I call to you, my love!
who I am, my love.
Of sea-captains young or old, and the mates, and of all intrepid sailors, Of the few, very choice, taciturn
rest, A spiritual woven signal for all nations, emblem of man elate above death, Token of all brave captains
and mates, And all that went down doing their duty, Reminiscent of them, twined from all intrepid captains
indeed, mattered little to him, for he has bided his time patiently and serenely, and when such captains
I wish to see my benefactor, and have felt much like striking my tasks and visiting New York to pay you
my respects.
The air tastes good to my palate.
Another song on the death of Lincoln, "Oh Captain! My Captain!"
WHEN LILACS LAST IN THE DOORYARD BLOOM'D . . . 255 O CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN . . . . . . . . 262 HUSH'D BE
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!
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse
WHEN LILACS LAST IN THE DOORYARD BLOOM'D . . . 255 O CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN . . . . . . . . 262 HUSH'D BE
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!
or "To the Leaven'd Soil they Trod," Or "Captain! My Captain!"
Now I laugh content, for I hear the voice of my little captain,(says my grandmother's father;) We have
my Captain!
O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! 1 O CAPTAIN! my captain!
Leave you not the little spot, Where on the deck my captain lies.
Fallen cold and dead. 2 O captain! my captain!
We closed with him—the yards entangled—the cannon touched, My captain lashed fast with his own hands.
I laughed content when I heard the voice of my little captain, We have not struck, he composedly cried
Only three guns were in use, One was directed by the captain himself against the enemy's main-mast, Two
Serene stood the little captain, He was not hurried—his voice was neither high nor low, His eyes gave
Then the mechanics take him for a mechanic, And the soldiers suppose him to be a captain, and the sailors
verses in this notebook were published posthumously as [I Stand and Look], Ship of Libertad, and Of My
Also included in this manuscript is a draft of That Shadow My Likeness, first published in New-York Saturday
This poem later appeared as Calamus No. 40, Leaves of Grass (1860); as That Shadow My Likeness, Leaves
do I not see my love fluttering out among the breakers?
Loud I call to you, my love!
who I am, my love.
Hither my love! Here I am! here!
But my mate no more, no more with me! We two together no more.
do I not see my love fluttering out among the breakers?
Loud I call to you, my love!
who I am, my love.
Hither my love! Here I am! here!
But my mate no more, no more with me! We two together no more.
Loud I call to you, my love!
who I am, my love.
Hither, my love! Here I am! Here!
But my love no more, no more with me!
O what is my destination?
Loud I call to you my love!
am, my love.
Hither, my love! Here I am! Here!
O what is my destination? O I fear it is henceforth chaos!
steadily up to my ears, Death, Death, Death, Death, Death.
do I not see my love fluttering out there among the breakers?
Loud I call to you, my love!
who I am, my love.
Hither, my love! Here I am! Here!
But my love no more, no more with me! We two together no more!
he screams to a gaping universe: "I, Walt Whitman, an American, one of the roughs, a Cosmos; I shout my
voice high and clear over the waves; I send my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world."
From those beginning notes of sickness and love, there in the mist, From the thousand responses in my
O what is my destination? O I fear it is henceforth chaos!"