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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 kell, 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.

Walt Whitman

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So, We'll Go No More a Roving

I.

So, we'Il go no more a roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be stili as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.

>II.

For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breache,
And love itself have rest.

III.

Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a roving
By the light of the moon.

George Byron

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I am here to sing thee songs

I am here to sing thee songs. In this hall of thine I have a corner
seat.

In thy world I have no work to do; my useless life can only break out
in tunes without a purpose.

When the hour strikes for thy silent worship at the dark temple of
midnight, command me, my master, to stand before thee to sing.

When in the morning air the golden harp is tuned, honour me,
commanding my presence.

Rabindranath Tagore

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Fragment: Amor Aeternus

Wealth and dominion fade into the mass
Of the great sea of human right and wrong,
When once from our possession they must pass;
But love, though misdirected, is among
The things which are immortal, and surpass
All that frail stuff which will be-or which was.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

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Ah Sun-Flower

Ah Sun-Flower! weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the Sun,
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
Where the traveller's journey is done:

Where the Youth pined away with desire,
And the pale Virgin shrouded in snow,
Arise from their graves and aspire
Where my Sun-Flower wishes to go

William Blake

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