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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.
or "To the Leaven'd Soil they Trod," Or "Captain! My Captain!"
thy Equal Brood," and many, many more unspecified, From fibre heart of mine—from throat and tongue—(My
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
the midday sun, the impalpable air—for life, mere life, For precious ever-lingering memories, (of you my
mother dear —you, father—you, brothers, sisters, friends,) For all my days—not those of peace alone—the
war's chosen ones, The cannoneers of song and thought—the great artillerists—the foremost leaders, captains
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?
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.
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
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!
my Captain!
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse
or "To the Leaven'd Soil they Trod," Or "Captain! My Captain!"
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
Good-Bye My Fancy! GOOD-BYE MY FANCY! GOOD-BYE my Fancy! Farewell dear mate, dear love!
going away, I know not where, Or to what fortune, or whether I may ever see you again, So Good-bye my
Now for my last—let me look back a moment; The slower fainter ticking of the clock is in me, Exit, nightfall
—now separation—Good-bye my Fancy.
my Fancy.
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.
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
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.
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
My 71st Year. MY 71ST YEAR.
AFTER surmounting three-score and ten, With all their chances, changes, losses, sorrows, My parents'
deaths, the vagaries of my life, the many tearing passions of me, the war of '63 and '4, As some old
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
My life and recitative, containing birth, youth, mid-age years, Fitful as motley-tongues of flame, inseparably
twined and merged in one—combining all, My single soul—aims, confirmations, failures, joys—Nor single
soul alone, I chant my nation's crucial stage, (America's, haply humanity's) —the trial great, the victory
common bulk, the general average horde, (the best no sooner than the worst)—And now I chant old age, (My
snow-white hairs the same, and give to pulses winter- cool'd the same;) As here in careless trill, I and my
And so will some one when I am dead and gone write my life?
(As if any man really knew aught of my life, Why even I myself I often think know little or nothing of
my real life, Only a few hints, a few diffused faint clews and indirections I seek for my own use to
my South! O quick mettle, rich blood, impulse and love! good and evil! O all dear to me!
O dear to me my birth-things—all moving things and the trees where I was born—the grains, plants, rivers
, Dear to me my own slow sluggish rivers where they flow, distant, over flats of silvery sands or through
, the Tombigbee, the Santee, the Coosa and the Sabine, O pensive, far away wandering, I return with my
parrots in the woods, I see the papaw-tree and the blos- soming blossoming titi; Again, sailing in my
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
VIGIL strange I kept on the field one night; When you my son and my comrade dropt at my side that day
WHILE my wife at my side lies slumbering, and the wars are over long, And my head on the pillow rests
Ah my silvery beauty—ah my woolly white and crimson! Ah to sing the song of you, my matron mighty!
than you suppose, And you that shall cross from shore to shore years hence are more to me, and more in my
forever held in solution, I too had receiv'd identity by my body, That I was I knew was of my body,
What is more subtle than this which ties me to the woman or man that looks in my face?
Which fuses me into you now, and pours my meaning into you? We understand then do we not?
loudly and musically call me by my nighest name! Live, old life!
A carol closing sixty-nine—a résumé—a repetition, My lines in joy and hope continuing on the same, Of
ye, O God, Life, Nature, Freedom, Poetry; Of you, my Land—your rivers, prairies, States—you, mottled
entire—Of north, south, east and west, your items all; Of me myself—the jocund heart yet beating in my
, old, poor and paralyzed—the strange inertia falling pall-like round me, The burning fires down in my
Scented Herbage of My Breast. SCENTED HERBAGE OF MY BREAST.
SCENTED herbage of my breast, Leaves from you I glean, I write, to be perused best afterwards, Tomb-leaves
O blossoms of my blood!
grow up out of my breast! Spring away from the conceal'd heart there!
Do not remain down there so ashamed, herbage of my breast!
SPLENDOR of ended day floating and filling me, Hour prophetic, hour resuming the past, Inflating my throat
Open mouth of my soul uttering gladness, Eyes of my soul seeing perfection, Natural life of me faithfully
To prepare for sleep, for bed, to look on my rose-color'd flesh!
To be conscious of my body, so satisfied, so large! To be this incredible God I am!
How my thoughts play subtly at the spectacles around! How the clouds pass silently overhead!
Who Learns My Lesson Complete? WHO LEARNS MY LESSON COMPLETE? WHO learns my lesson complete?
as every one is im- mortal immortal ; I know it is wonderful, but my eyesight is equally wonderful, and
how I was conceived in my mother's womb is equally wonderful, And pass'd from a babe in the creeping
And that my soul embraces you this hour, and we affect each other without ever seeing each other, and
my blue veins leaving! O drops of me!
from me falling, drip, bleeding drops, From wounds made to free you whence you were prison'd, From my
face, from my forehead and lips, From my breast, from within where I was conceal'd, press forth red
rais'd by a perfect mother, After roaming many lands, lover of populous pavements, Dweller in Mannahatta my
, Or rude in my home in Dakota's woods, my diet meat, my drink from the spring, Or withdrawn to muse
place with my own day here.
My comrade!
my intrepid nations! O I at any rate include you all with perfect love!
AS toilsome I wander'd Virginia's woods, To the music of rustling leaves kick'd by my feet, (for 'twas
this sign left, On a tablet scrawl'd and nail'd on the tree by the grave, Bold, cautious, true, and my
Long, long I muse, then on my way go wandering, Many a changeful season to follow, and many a scene of
soldier's grave, comes the inscrip- tion inscription rude in Virginia's woods, Bold, cautious, true, and my
WANDERING at morn, Emerging from the night from gloomy thoughts, thee in my thoughts, Yearning for thee
Thee coil'd in evil times my country, with craft and black dismay, with every meanness, treason thrust
its young, The singing thrush whose tones of joy and faith ecstatic, Fail not to certify and cheer my
If vermin so transposed, so used and bless'd may be, Then may I trust in you, your fortunes, days, my
Small the Theme of My Chant. From the 1867 edition L. of G. SMALL THE THEME OF MY CHANT.
Small the theme of my Chant, yet the greatest—namely, One's- Self One's-Self —a simple, separate person
My Days I sing, and the Lands—with interstice I knew of hap- less hapless War.
FATHOMLESS DEEPS. 1 RISE O days from your fathomless deeps, till you loftier, fiercer sweep, Long for my
O wild as my heart, and powerful!)
you have done me good, My soul prepared in the mountains absorbs your immortal strong nutriment, Long
had I walk'd my cities, my country roads through farms, only half satisfied, One doubt nauseous undulating
like a snake, crawl'd on the ground before me, Continually preceding my steps, turning upon me oft,
HERE the frailest leaves of me and yet my strongest lasting, Here I shade and hide my thoughts, I myself
do not expose them, And yet they expose me more than all my other poems.
Fascinated, my eyes reverting from the south, dropt, to follow those slender windrows, Chaff, straw,
O baffled, balk'd, bent to the very earth, Oppress'd with myself that I have dared to open my mouth,
whose echoes recoil upon me I have not once had the least idea who or what I am, But that before all my
sight of the sea taking advantage of me to dart upon me and sting me, Because I have dared to open my
Me and mine, loose windrows, little corpses, Froth, snowy white, and bubbles, (See, from my dead lips
hitherto publish'd, from the pleasures, profits, conformities, Which too long I was offering to feed my
soul, Clear to me now standards not yet publish'd, clear to me that my soul, That the soul of the man
substantial life, Bequeathing hence types of athletic love, Afternoon this delicious Ninth-month in my
forty-first year, I proceed for all who are or have been young men, To tell the secret of my nights
early in the morning, Walking forth from the bower refresh'd with sleep, Behold me where I pass, hear my
voice, approach, Touch me, touch the palm of your hand to my body as I pass, Be not afraid of my body