O Captain, My Captain

O Captain, My Captain - Walt Withman

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 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.

Sim, poema manjado do Withman pro Lincoln. Mas confessem que vocês adoraram quando o canastrão do Robn Williams declamou isso no Dead Poets Society.

Façam o seguinte, depois de lerem esse poema, vão para o enfant ler este. Acho que é o post mais presença de espírito, e de alma, e de cabeça, e de tudo, que já li.

E, claro, como não poderia deixar de ser, tasco uma musiquinha em homenagem a um blogue que fiquei conhecendo através do Arrastão -esse nem preciso falar que tem que entrar todo dia, né? Trata-se do ótimo A mão visível do economista Alexandre Schwartsman. Não sou besouromaníaca, mas gosto, certo?

The Beatles - Yesterday