The Art of Dreaming I
1. Close your eyes
2. Remember
The Art of Dreaming II
1. Trust your eyes
2. Surrender
The Art of Dreaming III
1. Damn your eyes
2. Carry on
The Art of Dreaming IV
1. Open your eyes
2. Forgive
The Art of Dreaming I
1. Close your eyes
2. Remember
The Art of Dreaming II
1. Trust your eyes
2. Surrender
The Art of Dreaming III
1. Damn your eyes
2. Carry on
The Art of Dreaming IV
1. Open your eyes
2. Forgive
A night wind
rustles dreams.
Was it you?
Can you leave a city
awash in dust and ashes
abandoned by memory and fate
by standing in its middle
and daring it
to fall around you?
A photograph:
Fields the color of winter
Nothing growing, nothing moving,
Just you, looking over your shoulder
As if I could still touch you.
A poem about the assassination of Abraham Lincoln, and the only poem by Whitman using standard meter and rhyme. Perhaps he thought the occasion required something more formal. Goose bumps.
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 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 anchored 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.