Not as came Hudson thro’ mists of the sea—
Dipping and rolling his Dutch-built ship—
Scanning the land fall with hungering eyes
And close-clenched lip,
By morning and noon,
Creeping past headland and sand-billowed dune,
Wing-weary ghost of a phantom quest,
Steering athrill but where waters led west.
Not as when taking the sweep of the bay,
Sparkling agleam in the brave Autumn weather,