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O Captain! My Captain! 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
But I with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.
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
But I with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.
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
Dozens of pages of his rhythmic prose are not worth "My Captain," which among all his compositions comes
If Whitman, after the same length of time, proves more fortunate, it will be because he wrote "My Captain
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!"
PASSAGE TO INDIA. 1 SINGING my days, Singing the great achievements of the present, Singing the strong
Struggles of many a captain, tales of many a sailor dead, Over my mood stealing and spreading they come
of you strong mountains of my land! Of you O prairies! of you gray rocks! O morning red! O clouds!
the blood burns in my veins! Away O soul! hoist instantly the anchor!
O my brave soul! O farther farther sail! O daring joy, but safe! are they not all the seas of God?
Then my father got very ill & I had to go down & see him (he is all right now.)
Then business in London, tedious travelling half across Europe, & now my wife and I are fixed in a little
I send you some stanzas about my day's walk with O'Grady (I found out shortly that he was a lover and
In a letter to Horst Frenz of August 13, 1950, Captain C. H.
Rolleston wrote: "I do not think there can be any doubt that my Father's schoolmaster friend was H.
are famous everywhere; and, though later efforts have been less happy, the one exquisite song, "O, Captain
My Captain!" written on the death of Lincoln, would make him one of our honored poets forever.
future," "You do not understand me, you cannot understand me, but I can wait hundreds of years for my
— The words of my book nothing, the drift of it everything.
"Not objecting to special revelations, considering a curl of smoke or a hair on the back of my hand just
Bless the Lord,O my soul!
my special word to thee. Who can be a companion of thy course!
lengthening shadows, prepare my starry nights.
my Captain! our fearful trip is done.
O,the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.
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.
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.
Was't charged against my chants they had forgotten art?
Another song on the death of Lincoln, "Oh Captain! My Captain!"
There is a lawless saying, fit only for the wise, but full of meaning for poets and great captains,—
My voice goes after what my eyes cannot reach, With the twirl of my tongue I encompass worlds and volumes
My ties and ballasts leave me, my elbows rest in sea-gaps, I skirt sierras, my palms cover continents
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
My lovers suffocate me, Crowding my lips, thick in the pores of my skin, Jostling me through streets
Sept: 9 '81 Dear Harry I keep about the same in health—am & have been very busy with the printing of my
here—have a good room & boarding house, the landlady is first rate & kind [to] me, (as often happens I find my
heart—you know the verse of the old song "A light heart & thin pair of breeches Goes through the world my
Howe, Captain Milton Haxtun, or Ed Dallin.
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
431 Stevens Street Camden New Jersey U S America Nov: 28 '81 My dear friend, Have time & its influences
My brother & sister are well. The Staffords the same.
I am writing this in the sunshine up in my old 3d story room—Best best love to you & to Herby & Grace
The intensity of her grief is visible in the lines of an undated and unsigned letter: "My dear Children
be resigned—but remorse—that I should have left her; that is like an envenomed wound poisoning all my
O the love for her shut up in my heart" (Charles E.
apologized for not remembering his birthday: "it was past & I had not written one word—not just put my
It is postmarked: LONDON | AM | MY 23 | 81 | CANADA.
.00986My Native Sand and Salt Once MoreJuly 25 '81—Far Rockaway LI1881prose4 leaveshandwritten; A draft of My
431 Stevens Street Camden New Jersey U S America May 30 '81 My dear Edward Carpenter, Yours of May 14
telegraphing— I was on in Boston five weeks since—but I believe I sent you a little printed item of my
you in the loss of the dear mother—I have drunk of that cup—Commend me faithfully in good wishes to my
Sharkland, whose name I have written as you desired, in the Volume— Write to me as often as you can, my
Carpenter wrote from Sheffield what Whitman termed a "good letter": "These friends that I have here and my
to my Notes" is written along the top of the page.
Some lines in this manuscript can also be found in [I just spin out my notes], another prose manuscript
for $12.50 on Jan: 22—I write to-day that I have not seen or heard of any such order, but consider it my
I see that Jan: 6 I sent you my circular in answer to previous letter from you—that is the only correspondence—I
But as in all such cases, I consider it my obligation & loss.
I send the Two Volumes, to you, same mail with this—The Two embody all my works—the little Vol's being
for $12.50 on Jan: 22—I write to-day that I have not seen or heard of any such order, but consider it my
. & all the boys & girls as usual— Nothing very new with me—I suppose you have rec'd received my pieces
about ten days ago —trust you are yourself again in sound health by this time —I believe I wrote last my
chilled —felt the effects two months—am now pretty well over it, & expect to be as usual till next time—My
My breath is so short, I cannot walk, which is a privation."
in the Feinberg Collection, Whitman wrote in 1886 or 1888: "Have had this little Vol. at hand or in my
Well, Hank, my Boston tramp, lecture, &c. turned out far ahead of what I had any idea of—it was not a
& callers all the time—So, boy, you see how your uncle was set up —& yet I am going to speak to all my
Y. papers —(will send you the Critic of the latter city next Monday or Tuesday with my piece in)— Havn't
of poetry by a boy 13 years old, in Pennsylvania, he sent it to me with a nice letter —Well, Hank, my
in good spirits—love to you & God bless you—I am sorry enough to hear your mother is unwell—Susan, my
The poet sent "My Picture-Gallery" to Balch on October 8, 1880, for which he received $5, and which appeared
guests when full, mostly families, very nice—capital table, (most too good for me, tempts me too much)— My
I suppose you get the papers I send—the Boston Globe of four or five days ago —& others—I get my letters
well here, sent on from Camden—Lou I send a small package directed to you by mail, please put it up on my
Clark very kind & thoughtful—appears as though I was going to have things all my own way—I have a table
Thou knowest my years entire, my life, My long and crowded life of active work, not adoration merely;
Thou knowest the prayers and vigils of my youth, Thou knowest my manhood's solemn and visionary meditations
All my emprises have been fill'd with Thee, My speculations, plans, begun and carried on in thoughts
, I yield my ships to Thee.
My hands, my limbs grow nerveless, My brain feels rack'd, bewilder'd, Let the old timbers part, I will
Covering all my lands—all my seashores lining! Flag of death!
Ah my silvery beauty—ah my woolly white and crimson! Ah to sing the song of you, my matron mighty!
My sacred one, my mother.
VIGIL strange I kept on the field one night; When you my son and my comrade dropt at my side that day
battle, the even-contested battle, Till late in the night reliev'd to the place at last again I made my
long-drawn sigh, long, long I gazed, Then on the earth partially reclining sat by your side leaning my
chin in my hands, Passing sweet hours, immortal and mystic hours with you dearest comrade—not a tear
, not a word, Vigil of silence, love and death, vigil for you my son and my soldier, As onward silently
Not Heaving From My Ribb'd Breast Only. NOT HEAVING FROM MY RIBB'D BREAST ONLY.
NOT heaving from my ribb'd breast only, Not in sighs at night in rage dissatisfied with myself, Not in
those long-drawn, ill-supprest sighs, Not in many an oath and promise broken, Not in my wilful and savage
soul's volition, Not in the subtle nourishment of the air, Not in this beating and pounding at my temples
O pulse of my life! Need I that you exist and show yourself any more than in these songs.
earth, she cried, I charge you lose not my sons, lose not an atom, And you streams absorb them well,
, and you airs that swim above lightly impalpable, And all you essences of soil and growth, and you my
, And you trees down in your roots to bequeath to all future trees, My dead absorb or South or North—my
darlings, give my immortal heroes, Exhale me them centuries hence, breathe me their breath, let not
O my dead, an aroma sweet! Exhale them perennial sweet death, years, centuries hence.
O I cruise my old cruise again!
My children and grand-children, my white hair and beard, My largeness, calmness, majesty, out of the
long stretch of my life.
my senses and flesh, My body done with materials, my sight done with my material eyes, Proved to me
this day beyond cavil that it is not my material eyes which finally see, Nor my material body which finally
LOVER divine and perfect Comrade, Waiting content, invisible yet, but certain, Be thou my God.
Ideal Man, Fair, able, beautiful, content, and loving, Complete in body and dilate in spirit, Be thou my
O Death, (for Life has served its turn,) Opener and usher to the heavenly mansion, Be thou my God.
All great ideas, the races' aspirations, All heroisms, deeds of rapt enthusiasts, Be ye my Gods.
and wondrous, Or some fair shape I viewing, worship, Or lustrous orb of sun or star by night, Be ye my
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.
WHEN I heard at the close of the day how my name had been receiv'd with plaudits in the capitol, still
it was not a happy night for me that follow'd, And else when I carous'd, or when my plans were accomplish'd
and undressing bathed, laughing with the cool waters, and saw the sun rise, And when I thought how my
dear friend my lover was on his way coming, O then I was happy, O then each breath tasted sweeter, and
all that day my food nourish'd me more, and the beautiful day pass'd well, And the next came with equal
SCENTED HERBAGE OF MY BREAST.
O blossoms of my blood!
EARTH, MY LIKENESS.
WHAT THINK YOU I TAKE MY PEN IN HAND? WHAT think you I take my pen in hand to record?
THAT SHADOW MY LIKENESS.
I am not accustomed thus to present my claim to acquaintanceship with writers.
I will believe this also, adding it to my "creed" the "I believes", of my religion which years ago I
I was certain my dear brother would not ask me to read a bad book.
That was my hour of triumph for my poet. For I had heard Mr.
If I were younger I would strive with all my to do something worthy of my worship of your genius, worthy
My Legacy. MY LEGACY.
But I, my life surveying, closing, With nothing to show to devise from its idle years, Nor houses nor
lands, nor tokens of gems or gold for my friends, Yet certain remembrances of the war for you, and after
you, And little souvenirs of camps and soldiers, with my love, I bind together and bequeath in this
Open mouth of my soul uttering gladness, Eyes of my soul seeing perfection, Natural life of me faithfully
MY LEGACY.
, And you trees down in your roots to bequeath to all future trees, My dead absorb or South or North—my
I remember I said before my leaves sprang at all, I would raise my voice jocund and strong with reference
I have offer'd my style to every one, I have journey'd with confi- dent confident step; While my pleasure
dear brothers' and sisters' sake, for the soul's sake, Wending my way through the homes of men, rich
words, mine only, Young and strong I pass knowing well I am destin'd myself to an early death; But my
charity has no death—my wisdom dies not, neither early nor late, And my sweet love bequeath'd here and
of reminiscences, brooding, with many wiles, (Though it was thought I was baffled and dispel'd, and my
side, warlike, equal with any, real as any, Nor time nor change shall ever change me or my words. 4
soldiers South or North, As I muse retrospective murmuring a chant in thought, The war resumes, again to my
Now sound no note O trumpeters, Not at the head of my cavalry parading on spirited horses, With sabres
drawn and glistening, and carbines by their thighs, (ah my brave horsemen!
My handsome tan-faced horsemen! what life, what joy and pride, With all the perils were yours.)
Perfume therefore my chant, O love, immortal love, Give me to bathe the memories of all dead soldiers
I remember I said before my leaves sprang at all, I would raise my voice jocund and strong with reference
I have press'd through in my own right, I have sung the body and the soul, war and peace have I sung,
I have offer'd my style to every one, I have journey'd with confi- dent confident step; While my pleasure
My songs cease, I abandon them, From behind the screen where I hid I advance personally solely to you
Remember my words, I may again return, I love you, I depart from materials, I am as one disembodied,
And what shall my perfume be for the grave of him I love?
O wild and loose to my soul—O wondrous singer!
voice of my spirit tallied the song of the bird.
While my sight that was bound in my eyes unclosed, As to long panoramas of visions.
I cease from my song for thee, From my gaze on thee in the west, fronting the west, communing with thee
That Shadow My Likeness. THAT SHADOW MY LIKENESS.
THAT shadow my likeness that goes to and fro seeking a liveli- hood livelihood , chattering, chaffering
and looking at it where it flits, How often I question and doubt whether that is really me; But among my
431 Stevens Street Camden New Jersey U S America Dec: 18 '81 My dear Rudolf Schmidt Yours of Nov: 27
too mourn the death of Elster —though unknown I had formed a liking for him—I shall forward one of my
book will not be published for some months—perhaps a year—I send you, same mail with this, a copy of my
is Sunday, just before sunset—& we have had a fine day—indeed a fine mild winter so far—have been in my
new edition is David Bogue, St Martin's Place, Trafalgar Square— I have heard that my book is to be
O my soldiers twain! O my veterans passing to burial! What I have I also give you.
The moon gives you light, And the bugles and the drums give you music, And my heart, O my soldiers, my
veterans, My heart gives you love.
you, & sister & father, & have you located —All sorrowful, solemn, yet soothing thoughts come up in my
mind at reminiscences of my dear friend, your dear mother —have often thought of you all, since '73
mine—I know him well — I have just returned from Boston, where I have been the past week—went on to read my
under the benumbing influences of paralysis, but thankful to be as well as I am—still board here (make my
head quarters here) with my brother & his wife—Eddy, my brother, is living & well, he is now boarding
Nothing my babe you see in the sky, And nothing at all to you it says—but look you my babe, Look at these
now the hal- yards halyards have rais'd it, Side of my banner broad and blue, side of my starry banner
Eastern shore, and my Western shore the same, And all between those shores, and my ever running Mississippi
with bends and chutes, And my Illinois fields, and my Kansas fields, and my fields of Missouri, The
My limbs, my veins dilate, my theme is clear at last, Banner so broad advancing out of the night, I sing
WHILE my wife at my side lies slumbering, and the wars are over long, And my head on the pillow rests
night midnight passes, And through the stillness, through the dark, I hear, just hear, the breath of my
with eager calls and orders of officers, While from some distant part of the field the wind wafts to my
far or near, (rousing even in dreams a devilish exultation and all the old mad joy in the depths of my
galloping by or on a full run, With the patter of small arms, the warning s-s-t of the rifles, (these in my
Camden Friday afternoon May 6 My dear friend I am sorry to hear of your feeling so unwell, & have thought
while I was there)—I had a lively time in Boston—Susan I wish you could have been there the evening of my
such a collection of people as would have suited you, & been a study—different from any I ever saw in my
them from the usual crowd—about 300—(I will tell you more when I see you)— As I write this part of my
supper, & here I am in perfect quiet up in my room, finishing my letter—Susan my dear friend I hope