You were too slow.
Long waited the vessel at the docks
Till the tide grew low
And the waves bared the rocks
And at last the pilot shook his head
And the eager sailors swarmed to the shrouds
And swan-like the ship moved from the harbor
On the shadow of clouds.

To a worthy Friend, who often objects the coldnesse of the Winter in Newfound-Land, and may serve for all those that have the like conceit.

You say that you would live in Newfound-land,
Did not this one thing your conceit withstand;
You feare the Winters cold, sharp, piercing ayre
They love it best, that have once wintered there.
Winter is there, short, wholesome, constant, cleare,
Not thicke, unwholesome, snuffling, as " tis here.

At morning's call
The small-voiced pug-dog welcomes in the sun,
And flea-bit mongrels, wakening one by one,
Give answer all.

Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray,
Upon the parlour steps collected,
Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say:
" Our master knows you; you're expected!"

My Portuguese-bred aunt
picked up a clay shivalingam
one day and said:
Is this an ashtray?
No, said the salesman,
This is our god.

Partaker in my happiest mood,
Companion of my solitude,
Refuge when gloomy thoughts intrude,
My bicycle to you I sing!
With you no cares my brain oppress,
I laugh at fortune's fickleness;
No other sports your charm possess,
Nor match for me the joy you bring.

Cricket, be
careful! I'm rolling
over!

When lilies by the river fill with sun,
And banks with clematis are overrun;
When winds are weighed with fern-sweet from the hill,
And hawks wheel in the noontide hot and still;
When thistle-tops are silvered, every one,
And fly-lamps flicker ere the day is done, —
Nature bethinks her how to crown these things.
At twilight she decides: the wood-thrush sings.

With eyes filled with tears
I look back to my homeland,
Glimpsing one last time.

Day of vast dreaming!
I sailed for America
Billowing with hope.