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describes himself well enough in the lines, I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable — , I sound my
He says (p. 31): Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul.
His tribute to Abraham Lincoln (p. 262), beginning "O Captain! my Captain!"
Bless the Lord,O my soul!
lengthening shadows, prepare my starry nights.
poems which have rhyme and the stanza, the rhymes are of the crudest and the stanzas are fetters: O Captain
my Captain! our fearful trip is done.
O,the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.
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!"
We closed with him, the yards entangled, the cannon touch'd, My captain lash'd fast with his own hands
Now I laugh content, for I hear the voice of my little captain, We have not struck, he composedly cries
Only three guns are in use, One is directed by the captain himself against the enemy's main- mast main-mast
Serene stands the little captain, He is not hurried, his voice is neither high nor low, His eyes give
The black ship mail'd with iron, her mighty guns in her turrets— but the pluck of the captain and engineers
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
I loafe and invite my soul. I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of sum- mer summer grass.
My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air, Born here of parents born here from
stuck up, and am in my place.
Now comes a passage remarkable for its nobility: "With music strong I come, with my cornets and my drums
I beat and pound for the dead, I blow through my embouchures my loudest and gayest for them.
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.
My special word to thee. Hear me illustrious!
woodedge, thy touching-distant beams enough, or man matured, or young or old, as now to thee I launch my
lengthening shadows, prepare my starry nights.
make the only growth by which I can be appreciated, I reject none, accept all, then reporduce all in my
For the great Idea, That, O my brethren, that is the mission of poets.
It still maintains: I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable; I sound my barbaric yawp over