The Common People

The genius of the United States is not best or most in its executives or legislatures, nor in its ambassadors or authors or colleges or churches or parlors, nor even in its newspapers or inventors . . but always most in the common people. Their manners, speech, dress, friendships,-the freshness and candor of their physiognomy-the picturesque looseness of their carriage. . . their deathless attachment to freedom-their aversion to anything indecorous or soft or mean-the practical acknowledgment of the citizens of one state by the citizens of all other states-the fierceness of their roused resentment-their curiosity and susceptibility to a slight-the air they have of persons who never knew how it felt to stand in the presence of superiors-the fluency of their speech-their delight in music, the sure symptom of manly tenderness and native elegance of soul. . . their good temper and openhandedness-the terrible significance of their elections-the President's taking off his hat to them and not they to him-these too are unrhymed poetry.

 (From the preface to Leaves of Grass)

Walt Whitman

O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!

[Written in memory of President Lincoln, to whom the poem refers as the captain of the ship of State.]

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 0 heart! heart! heart!

            0 the bleeding drops of red,

            Where on the deck my Captain lies,

 Fallen cold and dead.

0 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:

            Hear 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 me, his lips are pale and still,

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will.

The ship is anchored 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.

                                               Walt Whitman