1.module IV (Poems)
1.module IV (Poems)
William Shakespeare
The
TO AUTUMN
SEASON of mistsJOHN
and mellowKEATS
fruitfulness,
O Captain My Captain
WALT WHITMAN
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 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 ribboned wreaths for you the shores acrowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Their weary ship is drawing near the sea-port, the church bells
are ringing to celebrate a victory and the people are rejoicing.
Yet in the midst the celebration, he sees that within the grim
and the daring vessel, his heart would spill profusely with
drops of blood of immeasurable sadness to see his captain
lying cold and dead.
Whitman pleads desperately to the captain to get up
from his bed and see that the people are flying the flag just for
him. The people are blowing their trumpets and bugles and
are waiting to present him with bunches of flowers and
decorated garlands to honour him-the victor. The seashores
are swaying with crowds of cheering people. All the faces of
the people on the shore are eager to see the captain
addressing them from the deck. Yet the captain, a father to all
people of the nation slept still and cold with his arm beneath
his head. It is like an unbelievable bad dream that the leader
is dead at the moment of victory.
Yet the captain does not answer still. His lips are extremely
pale and not moving. Whitman says that his father does not
feel his arm, and has neither pulse nor movement. The ship
has finally reached the shore. It has dropped its anchor safe
and sound.
Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high
Where knowledge is free
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments
By narrow domestic walls
Where words come out from the depth of truth
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards
perfection
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way
Into the dreary desert sand of dead habit
Where the mind is led forward by thee
Into ever-widening thought and action
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country
awake.
A Psalm of Life
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow