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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 armchair by the window seated,
(Somtimes, indeed, through half the day),
Watching the coming, going of the vessels, he
mutters to himself—and now the close of
all;
One struggling outbound brig, one day baffled
for long—cross-tides and much wrong-
going—
At last at nightfall strikes the breeze aright,
her whole luck veering,
And swiftly bending round the cape, the dark-
ness proudly entering, cleaving, as he
watches,
"She's free—she's on her destination"—these the
last words—when Jenny came, he sat
there dead,
Dutch Kossabone, Old Salt, related on my
mother's side, far back.
WALT WHITMAN.
Copy-text
Our transcription is based on a digital image of a microfilm copy of an original issue.
Publication Information
"Old Salt Kossabone."
New York Herald
25 February 1888:
6.
Reprinted in the "Sands at Seventy" annex to Leaves of Grass (1888).
Whitman Archive ID
per.00098