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 and 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 Mother! This arm beneath your head! It is some dream that on the deck, you've fallen cold and dead. My Captain does not answer, her lips are pale and still; My Mother does not feel my arm, she has no pulse nor will; The ship is anchored safe and sound, it's voyage closed and done; from fearful trip the victor ship comes in with objects won; Exult O shores, and ring o bells! But I, with mournful tread, walk the deck my captain lies, fallen cold and dead. A poem by Walt Whitman, adapted for you Mum, "My Captain" xxx xxx xxx