Twenty Years
per.00046.001
Twenty Years.
Down on the ancient wharf, thesand, I sit, with a new-
comer chatting: He shipp'd as green-hand boy,
and sail'd away (took some
sudden, vehement notion;) Since, twenty years and more have circled round and round, While he the globe was circling round and round,—and now
returns: How changed the place—all the old land-marks
gone—the parents dead; (Yes, he comes back to lay in port for good—
to settle—has a well-fill'd purse—no spot
will do but this;) The little boat that scull'd him from the sloop,
now held in leash I see, I hear the slapping waves, the restless keel, the
recking in the sand, I see the sailor kit, the canvas bag, the great
box bound with brass, I scan the face all berry-brown and bearded—
the stout, strong frame, Dress'd in its russet suit of good Scotch cloth: (Then what the told-out story of those twenty
years? What of the future?) WALT WHITMAN.