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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 _^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