Henry Kendall

(18 April 1839 – 1 August 1882 / Ulladulla, New South Wales)

Henry Kendall Poems

1. Achan 1/1/2004
2. On The Paroo 4/7/2010
3. Our Jack 4/7/2010
4. For Ever 4/7/2010
5. Ghost Glen 4/7/2010
6. Merope 4/7/2010
7. Intaglio - Frank Denz 4/7/2010
8. The Curse Of Mother Flood 4/7/2010
9. In Memory Of Edward Butler 4/7/2010
10. Ogyges 4/7/2010
11. The Earth Laments For Day 4/7/2010
12. Mount Erebus: (A Fragment) 4/7/2010
13. James Lionel Michael 1/1/2004
14. Caroline Chisholm 4/7/2010
15. Christmas Creek 4/7/2010
16. Daniel Henry Deniehy 1/1/2004
17. Lilith 4/7/2010
18. Ned The Larrikin 4/7/2010
19. In Memoriam -- A. L. Gordon 4/7/2010
20. In Memoriam — Nicol Drysdale Stenhouse 4/7/2010
21. Foreshadowings 4/7/2010
22. Kingsborough 4/7/2010
23. Manasseh 4/7/2010
24. Morning In The Bush 4/7/2010
25. Orara 1/1/2004
26. Outre Mer 1/4/2003
27. Dedication 4/7/2010
28. The Wail In The Native Oak 4/7/2010
29. The Wild Kangaroo 4/7/2010
30. To Miss Annie Hopkins 4/7/2010
31. Bill The Bullock-Driver 4/7/2010
32. Hy-Brasil 1/4/2003
33. Mary Rivers 4/7/2010
34. Leaves From Australian Forests (12 Sonnets) 4/7/2010
35. In Memoriam~ -- Alice Fane Gunn Stenhouse 4/7/2010
36. In Memorium : Adam Lindsay Gordon 4/7/2010
37. John Dunmore Lang 4/7/2010
38. Kiama Revisited 4/7/2010
39. Jim The Splitter 4/7/2010
40. In The Depths Of A Forest 4/7/2010
Best Poem of Henry Kendall

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...

Read the full of The Last Of His Tribe

James Lionel Michael

BE HIS rest the rest he sought:
Calm and deep.
Let no wayward word or thought
Vex his sleep.
Peace—the peace that no man knows—
Now remains
Where the wasted woodwind blows,
Wakes and wanes.

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