Walt Whitman's Poems Oh,Captain!My Captain! 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. Beat!Beat!Drums! Beat!beat!drums!-blow!bugles!blow! Through the windows-through doors-burst like a ruthless force, Into the solemn church,and scatter the congregation, Into the school where the scholar is studying, Leave not the bridegroom quiet-no happiness must he have now with his bride, Nor the peaceful farmer any peace,ploughing his field or gathering his grain, So fierce you whirr and pound you drums-so shrill you bugles blow. Beat!beat!drums!-blow!bugles!blow! Over the traffic of cities-over the rumble of wheels in the streets; Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses?no sleepers must sleep in those beds, No bargainers'bargains by day-no brokers or speculators-would they continue?
Walt Whitman’s Poems Oh, Captain! My Captain! 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. Beat! Beat! Drums! Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow! Through the windows—through doors—burst like a ruthless force, Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation, Into the school where the scholar is studying, Leave not the bridegroom quiet—no happiness must he have now with his bride, Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, ploughing his field or gathering his grain, So fierce you whirr and pound you drums—so shrill you bugles blow. Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow! Over the traffic of cities—over the rumble of wheels in the streets; Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses? no sleepers must sleep in those beds, No bargainers’ bargains by day—no brokers or speculators—would they continue?
Walt Whitman's Poems Would the talkers be talking?would the singer attempt to sing? Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the judge? Then rattle quicker,heavier drums-you bugles wilder blow. Beat!beat!drums!-blow!bugles!blow! Make no parley-stop for no expostulation, Mind not the timid-mind not the weeper or prayer, Mind not the old man beseeching the young man, Let not the child's voice be heard,nor the mother's entreaties, Make even the trestles to shake the dead where they lie awaiting the hearses, So strong you thump O terrible drums-so loud you bugles blow. Full of Life Now Full of life now,compact,visible, I,forty years old the eighty-third year of the States, To one a century hence or any number of centuries hence, To you yet unborn these,seeking you. When you read these I that was visible am become invisible, Now it is you,compact,visible,realizing my poems,seeking me, Fancying how happy you were if I could be with you and become your comrade; Be it as if I were with you.(Be not too certain but I am now with you.) I Hear America Singing I hear America singing,the varied carols I hear, Those of mechanics,each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong, The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam, The mason singing his as he makes ready for work,or leaves off work, The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat,the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck, The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench,the hatter singing as he stands, The wood-cutter's song,the ploughboy's on his way in the morning,or at noon intermission or at sundown, The delicious singing of the mother,or of the young wife at work,or of the girl sewing or washing, Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else, The day what belongs to the day--at night the party of young fellows,robust,friendly, Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs. A Noiseless Patient Spider A noiseless patient spider, I marked where on a promontory it stood isolated, Marked how to explore the vacant vast surrounding, It launched forth filament,filament.filament,out of itself
Walt Whitman’s Poems Would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt to sing? Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the judge? Then rattle quicker, heavier drums—you bugles wilder blow. Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow! Make no parley—stop for no expostulation, Mind not the timid—mind not the weeper or prayer, Mind not the old man beseeching the young man, Let not the child’s voice be heard, nor the mother’s entreaties, Make even the trestles to shake the dead where they lie awaiting the hearses, So strong you thump O terrible drums—so loud you bugles blow. Full of Life Now Full of life now, compact, visible, I, forty years old the eighty-third year of the States, To one a century hence or any number of centuries hence, To you yet unborn these, seeking you. When you read these I that was visible am become invisible, Now it is you, compact, visible, realizing my poems, seeking me, Fancying how happy you were if I could be with you and become your comrade; Be it as if I were with you. (Be not too certain but I am now with you.) I Hear America Singing I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear, Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong, The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam, The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work, The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck, The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands, The wood-cutter's song, the ploughboy's on his way in the morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown, The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the girl sewing or washing, Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else, The day what belongs to the day--at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly, Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs. A Noiseless Patient Spider A noiseless patient spider, I marked where on a promontory it stood isolated, Marked how to explore the vacant vast surrounding, It launched forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself
Walt Whitman's Poems Ever unreeling them,ever tirelessly speeding them. And you O my soul where you stand, Surrounded,detached,in measureless oceans of space, Ceaselessly musing,venturing,throwing,seeking the spheres to connect them, Till the bridge you will need be formed,till the ductile anchor hold, Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere,O my soul. A Supermarket in California What thoughts I have of you tonight,Walt Whitman,for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon. In my hungry fatigue,and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket,dreaming of your enumerations! What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados,babies in the tomatoes!--and you, Garcia Lorca,what were you doing down by the watermelons? I saw you,Walt Whitman,childless,lonely old grubber,poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys. I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel? I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you,and followed in my imagination by the store detective. We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes,possessing every frozen delicacy,and never passing the cashier. Where are we going,Walt Whitman?The doors close in an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight? (I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.) Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to shade,lights out in the houses,we'll both be lonely. Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automobiles in driveways,home to our silent cottage? Ah,dear father,graybeard,lonely old courage-teacher,what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of
Walt Whitman’s Poems Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them. And you O my soul where you stand, Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space, Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them, Till the bridge you will need be formed, till the ductile anchor hold, Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul. A Supermarket in California What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon. In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations! What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons? I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys. I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel? I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and followed in my imagination by the store detective. We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier. Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight? (I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.) Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely. Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage? Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of
Walt Whitman's Poems Lethe?
Walt Whitman’s Poems Lethe?