Vendredi 9 janvier 2009
5
09
/01
/Jan
/2009 09:47
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O CAPTAIN! my Captain, our fearful trip is done,
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The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won,
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The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
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While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
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But O heart! heart! heart!
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O the bleeding drops of red,
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Where on the deck my Captain lies,
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Fallen cold and dead.
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O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
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Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills,
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For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding,
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For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
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Here Captain! dear father!
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The arm beneath your head!
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It is some dream that on the deck,
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You've fallen cold and dead.
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My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
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My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
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The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
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From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
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Exult O shores and ring O bells!
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But I with mournful tread,
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Walk the deck my Captain lies,
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Fallen Cold and Dead.
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Walt Whitman (1865)
Le Cercle des Poètes Disparus
Par Moicani
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Publié dans : L'Odéonie
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