Daily Whitman

558e24ed3fb3759f1b0dfc239ba03bca

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 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 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 darkness 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.

 

 

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 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 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 darkness 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.

 

Posted on 06/10/2015, in literature, poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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