Walt Whitman

“ My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all ex - ult - ing,
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths — for you the shores a - crowd-ing,
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
While follow eyes the steady keel, the ves - sel
For yon they call, the swaying mass— their ea - ger
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with grim and dar - ing; But O heart! heart!
fa - ces turn - ing; Here Captain! dear father! ”