Walt Whitman. 1819–1892

O Captain! My Captain!

O 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 !
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-crowing,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning ;
Here Captain ! dead 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 suond, 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.

O Capitano! Mio capitano!

O capitano! Mio capitano! Il nostro viaggio tremendo è terminato,
la nave ha superato ogni ostacolo, l'ambìto premio è conquistato,
vicino è il porto, odo le campane, tutto il popolo esulta,
occhi seguono l'invitto scafo, la nave arcigna e intrepida;
ma o cuore! Cuore! Cuore!
O gocce rosse di sangue,
là sul ponte dove giace il capitano,
caduto, gelido, morto.

O capitano! Mio capitano! Risorgi, odi le campane;
risorgi - per te è issata la bandiera - per te squillano le trombe,
per te fiori e ghirlande ornate di nastri - per te le coste affollate,
te invoca la massa ondeggiante, a te volgono i volti ansiosi;
ecco capitano! o amato padre!
Questo braccio sotto il tuo capo!
Solo è il sogno che sul ponte
sei caduto, gelido, morto.

Non risponde il mio capitano, le sue labbra sono pallide e immobili,
non sente il padre il mio braccio, non ha più energia né volontà,
la nave è all'ancora sana e salva, il suo viaggio concluso, finito,
la nave vittoriosa è tornata dal viaggio tremendo, la meta è raggiunta;
esultate coste, suonate campane!
Mentre io con funebre passo
percorro il ponte dove giace il mio capitano,
caduto, gelido, morto

 

"O Captain! My Captain!"

Walt Whitman (1819-1892) wrote this dirge for the death of Abraham Lincoln in 1865. Published to immediate acclaim in the New York City Saturday Press, "O Captain! My Captain!" was widely anthologized during his lifetime. In the 1880s, when Whitman gave public lectures and readings, he was asked to recite the poem so often that he said: "I'm almost sorry I ever wrote [it]," though it had "certain emotional immediate reasons for being."

While Whitman is renowned as the most innovative of American poets, this poem is a rare example of his use of rhymed, rhythmically regular verse, which serves to create a somber yet exalted effect. Whitman had envisioned Lincoln as an archangel captain, and reportedly dreamed the night before the assassination about a ship entering harbor under full sail.