Old Salt Kossabone.
|
| Far back, related on my mother's side, |
| Old Salt Kossabone, I'll tell you how he died; |
| (Had been a sailor all his life—was nearly 90— |
| lived with his married grandchild Jenny, |
| House on a hill with view of bay at hand, and |
| distant cape, and stretch to open sea;) |
| The last of afternoons, the evening hours, for many |
| a year his regular custom, |
| In his great ^arm‑chair by the front window seated, |
| (sometimes indeed through half the day,) |
| Watching the coming, going of the vessels, he |
| ^mutters to himself—And now the close of all: |
| One struggling ^out‑bound brig one day baffled for long— |
| cross-tides and much wrong‑going. |
| At last at night-fall strikes the breeze aright, |
| her whole luck veering, |
| And swiftly out on around ^bending round the cape, the darkness |
| proudly entering, cleaving, as he watches, |
| "She's free—she's on her course destination"—these his the last |
| words—when Jenny came, he sat there dead; |
| Dutch Kossabone, Old Salt, related on my |
| mother's side, far back. |
|
Walt Whitman |
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