INTRODUCTION

Walt Whitman (1819 – 1892) grew up in Long Island and Brooklyn, New York, apprenticing to become a printer until he turned to teaching and then eventually to journalism. Regardless, Whitman was devoted to reading and writing from an early age. He self-published his first volume of poetry, Leaves of Grass, in 1855 (where “Song of Myself” first appeared, untitled) and then kept revising and expanding the volume over the remaining decades of his life. During the Civil War, Whitman returned to newspaper work, writing for New York newspapers as an occasional correspondent based in Washington, where he also volunteered as a nurse in wartime hospitals. In the summer of 1863, Whitman wrote a column for the New York Times describing Abraham Lincoln, whom he noted he saw “almost every day” as the president rode into the White House from his summer cottage at the Soldiers’ Home, a military community on the outskirts of town (and like a 19th-century Camp David presidential retreat). “O, Captain! My Captain!” was Whitman’s elegy to Lincoln after his assassination in 1865. Whitman lived in Washington for years following Lincoln’s death, before eventually settling in New Jersey. Whitman became celebrated as an American poet while he was alive during the decades after the Civil War. Dubbed “America’s world poet,” by the Poetry Foundation, and exalted as “a latter-day successor to Homer, Virgil, Dante, and Shakespeare,” Whitman today is regarded by many critics as the nation’s greatest poet.
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!
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.
