Henry Kendall

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

Henry Kendall Poems

121. Euroclydon 4/7/2010
122. Bob 4/7/2010
123. The Bereaved One 4/7/2010
124. The Far Future 4/7/2010
125. Wollongong 4/7/2010
126. The Curlew Song 4/7/2010
127. The Melbourne International Exhibition 4/7/2010
128. Eighteen Hundred And Sixty-Four 4/7/2010
129. Black Kate 4/7/2010
130. Waiting And Wishing 4/7/2010
131. The Voice In The Wild Oak 4/7/2010
132. Prefatory Sonnets I 1/4/2003
133. Extempore Lines 4/7/2010
134. Galatea 4/7/2010
135. Safi 4/7/2010
136. Euterpe 4/7/2010
137. Doubting 4/7/2010
138. God Help Our Men At Sea 4/7/2010
139. To The Spirit Of Music 4/7/2010
140. Deniehy’s Lament 4/7/2010
141. Harps We Love 4/7/2010
142. On A Baby Buried By The Hawkesbury 4/7/2010
143. Drowned At Sea 4/7/2010
144. Passing Away 4/7/2010
145. Blue Mountain Pioneers 4/7/2010
146. Dungog 4/7/2010
147. The Barcoo 1/1/2004
148. Basil Moss 4/7/2010
149. Ella With The Shining Hair 4/7/2010
150. By The Sea 4/7/2010
151. Song Of The Shingle-Splitters 1/1/2004
152. Faith In God 4/7/2010
153. September In Australia 1/4/2003
154. Rose Lorraine 1/4/2003
155. Black Lizzie 4/7/2010
156. Sutherland’s Grave 4/7/2010
157. Bellambi's Maid 4/7/2010
158. Sydney Harbour 4/7/2010
159. The Ivy On The Wall 4/7/2010
160. Clari 4/7/2010
Best Poem of Henry Kendall

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.”
But I whispered: “O Darling, I falter with pain!”
And the thirsty leaves rustled, and hissed for the rain,
Where a wayfarer halted and slept on the plain;
And dreamt of a garden of Roses!
Of a cool sweet place,
And a nestling face
In a dance and a dazzle of Roses.
In the drought of a Desert, outwearied, I wept,
O Etheline, ...

Read the full of Amongst The Roses

Kiama

Towards the hills of Jamberoo
Some few fantastic shadows haste,
Uplit with fires
Like castle spires
Outshining through a mirage waste.
Behold, a mournful glory sits
On feathered ferns and woven brakes,
Where sobbing wild like restless child
The gusty breeze of evening wakes!

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