Walt
Whitman
O
Captain!
my
Captain!
our
fearful
trip
is
done;
The
ship
has
weathered
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
ribboned
wreaths
-for
you
the
shores
a-crowding，
For
you
they
call，the
swaying
mass，their
eager
faces
turning;
Here
Captain!
dear
father!
This