o captain my captain

(bkz: dead poets society)
(bkz: peter weir)


o captain! my captain!
walt whitman

o captain! my captain! our fearful trip is done;
the ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;
the port is near, the bells i hear, the people all exulting,
while follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
but o heart! heart! heart!
o the bleeding drops of red,
where on the deck my captain lies,
fallen cold and dead.

o captain! my captain! rise up and hear the bells;
rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills;
for you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding;
for you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
here captain! dear father!
this arm beneath your head;
it is some dream that on the deck,
you’ve fallen cold and dead.

my captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
my father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
the ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
from fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
exult, o shores, and ring, o bells!
but i, with mournful tread,
walk the deck my captain lies,
fallen cold and dead.

#669168

(bkz: call me o captain my captain)