Thomas Henry Kendall was a nineteenth century Australian poet.
Kendall was born near Ulladulla, New South Wales. He was registered as Thomas Henry Kendall, but never appears to have used his first name. His three volumes of verse were all published under the name of "Henry Kendall". His father, Basil Kendall, was the son of the Rev. Thomas Kendall who came to Sydney in 1809 and five years later went as a missionary to New Zealand.
He received only a slight education. When he was 15 he went to sea with one of his uncles and was away for about two years. Returning to Sydney when 17 years old he found his mother keeping a boarding-school; it was ... more »
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Henry Kendall Poems
The Last of his Tribe
He crouches, and buries his face on his knees, And hides in the dark of his hair; For he cannot look up to the storm-smitten trees, Or think of the loneliness there -
Amongst the Roses
I walked through a Forest, beneath the hot noon, On Etheline calling and calling! One said: “She will hear you and come to you soon, When the coolness, my brother, is falling.”
After Many Years
The song that once I dreamed about, The tender, touching thing, As radiant as the rose without, The love of wind and wing:
River, myrtle rimmed, and set Deep amongst unfooted dells— Daughter of grey hills of wet, Born by mossed and yellow wells;
Aboriginal Death Song
Feet of the flying, and fierce Tops of the sharp-headed spear, Hard by the thickets that pierce, Lo! they are nimble and near.
Song of the Cattle Hunters
While the morning light beams on the fern-matted streams, And the water-pools flash in its glow, Down the ridges we fly, with a loud ringing cry -- Down the ridges and gullies we go!
By channels of coolness the echoes are calling, And down the dim gorges I hear the creek falling;
After the Hunt
Underneath the windy mountain walls Forth we rode, an eager band, By the surges and the verges and the gorges, Till the night was on the land—
The River and the Hill
And they shook their sweetness out in their sleep On the brink of that beautiful stream, But it wandered along with a wearisome song Like a lover that walks in a dream:
AT DUSK, like flowers that shun the day, Shy thoughts from dim recesses break, And plead for words I dare not say For your sweet sake.
ACROSS the dripping ridges, O, look, luxurious night! She comes, the bright-haired beauty, My luminous delight!
A Day of Dream
On that bold hill, against a broad blue stream, stood Arthur Phillip on a day of dream; what time the mists of morning westward rolled
A splendid sun betwixt the trees Long spikes of flame did shoot, When turning to the fragrant South, With longing eyes and burning mouth,
The heart that once was rich with light, And happy in your grace, Now lieth cold beneath the scorn That gathers on your face;
Comments about Henry Kendall
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
The Last of his Tribe
He crouches, and buries his face on his knees,
And hides in the dark of his hair;
For he cannot look up to the storm-smitten trees,
Or think of the loneliness there -
Of the loss and the loneliness there.
The wallaroos grope through the tufts of the grass,
And turn to their coverts for fear;
But he sits in the ashes and lets them pass
Where the boomerangs sleep with the spear -
With the nullah, the sling and the spear.
Uloola, behold him! The thunder that breaks
On the tops of the rocks with the rain,
And the wind which drives up with the...