Al viejo de barbas del País de hierro lo conocí en la secundaria. Me topé con su escritura cuando rebasé a Edgar Allan Poe y pasé a otro carril de esta carretera literaria. Los grandes de Estados Unidos como T. S. Eliot, Henry David Thoreau y Emily Elizabeth Dickinson.
Bueno no los aburro más con mi peyorata, los dejó con este poema de Whitman...
OH CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!
Walt Whitman (1819-1892)
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.
