There is something about poetry, something that cannot be achieved by prose, that cannot be contained in full and grammatically correct sentences.
Poetry is like a night-time breeze, you cannot see it, you cannot touch it, you have to be content with the feel of it. A poem cannot be torn apart line-by-line, it has to be taken whole, felt whole, loved whole. Love her like you would a woman, seek not to understand her fully, yet be content with whatever she reveals to you…
Here is my favourite poem from this wonderful poet:
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 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.
