Wocky Jivvy: Poetry and Art "When the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden's green and gold,
Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mould;
And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart,
Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves, "It's pretty, but is it Art?"
from Rudyard Kipling's The Conundrum of the Workshops

divider line and nothing more


* Poetry: Poems of Acclaim

O Captain! My Captain!

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 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.

Walt Whitman (1819-1892)

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