Poetry Breakfast #15 – O Captain! My Captain!

O Coffee! My Coffee!
(Because we haven’t done enough to Walt Whitman)

O Coffee! my Coffee! our fearful brew is done;
The pot’s extracted every drop, the prize we sought is won;
The cup is near, the taste is clear, my hazy brain exulting,
While follow eyes the steady pour, the vessel hot and waiting;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the fading drops of brown,
Where in the pot my coffee grounds lie,
Swollen spent and dead.

O Coffee! my Coffee! rise up and smell the smells;
Rise up – for you the mug is raised – for you the bacon sizzles;
For your bouquet and fragrant notes – for you my brain’s awaiting;
For you it calls, the graying mass, its hazy senses turning;
Here Coffee! dear cherry!
This filter ‘neath your bed;
It is some dream that in my cone,
you’re spent, brewed, cold, and dead.

My Coffee does not answer, its color amber and clear;
My spent grinds do not feel filter, it has no pulse nor will;
The cup is poured now, safe and sound, the pot’s voyage closed and done;
From grind to brew, my morning brew, is done with object won;
Exult, O brain; depart, O sleep!
But I, with morning tread,
Walk past the filter where grounds lie,
Spent, brewed, cold and dead.

O Captain! My Captain!
Walt Whitman

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 dec,
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 or 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.

Source: http://www.poemhunger.com/poem/o-captain-my-captain/