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Search : of captain, my captain!
Work title : To One Shortly To Die
Work title : To A President

5 results

Leaves of Grass (1881–1882)

  • Date: 1881–1882
  • Creator(s): Walt Whitman
Text:

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

Leaves of Grass (1891–1892)

  • Date: 1891–1892
  • Creator(s): Walt Whitman
Text:

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!"

Leaves of Grass (1867)

  • Date: 1867
  • Creator(s): Walt Whitman
Text:

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!

Leaves of Grass (1860–1861)

  • Date: 1860–1861
  • Creator(s): Walt Whitman
Text:

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

Cluster: Messenger Leaves. (1860)

  • Date: 1860–1861
  • Creator(s): Walt Whitman
Text:

Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem, I whisper with my lips close to your

O I have been dilatory and dumb, I should have made my way straight to you long ago, I should have blabbed

paint myriads of heads, but paint no head with- out without its nimbus of gold-colored light, From my

my brother or my sister! Keep on!

Softly I lay my right hand upon you—you just feel it, I do not argue—I bend my head close, and half-

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