Henry Kendall

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

Henry Kendall Poems

161. The Ivy On The Wall 4/7/2010
162. The Last Of His Tribe 1/1/2004
163. The Late W. V. Wild, Esq. 4/7/2010
164. The Maid Of Gerringong 4/7/2010
165. The Melbourne International Exhibition 4/7/2010
166. The Merchant Ship 4/7/2010
167. The Muse Of Australia 1/1/2004
168. The Old Year 4/7/2010
169. The Opossum-Hunters 4/7/2010
170. The Rain Comes Sobbing To The Door 4/7/2010
171. The River And The Hill 1/1/2004
172. The Song Of Arda: (From “annatanam”.) 4/7/2010
173. The Song Of Ninian Melville 4/7/2010
174. The Sydney International Exhibition 4/7/2010
175. The Voice In The Wild Oak 4/7/2010
176. The Voyage Of Telegonus 4/7/2010
177. The Wail In The Native Oak 4/7/2010
178. The Warrigal 4/7/2010
179. The Waterfall 4/7/2010
180. The Wild Kangaroo 4/7/2010
181. To - - 4/7/2010
182. To A Mountain 1/4/2003
183. To Damascus 4/7/2010
184. To Henry Halloran 4/7/2010
185. To Miss Annie Hopkins 4/7/2010
186. To My Brother, Basil E. Kendall 4/7/2010
187. To The Spirit Of Music 4/7/2010
188. Ulmarra 4/7/2010
189. Under The Figtree 4/7/2010
190. Urara 4/7/2010
191. Waiting And Wishing 4/7/2010
192. Wamberal 4/7/2010
193. Watching 4/7/2010
194. When Underneath The Brown Dead Grass 4/7/2010
195. William Bede Dalley 4/7/2010
196. Wollongong 4/7/2010

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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


The gums in the gully stand gloomy and stark,
A torrent beneath them is leaping,
And the wind goes about like a ghost in the dark
Where a chief of Wahibbi lies sleeping!
He dreams of a battle -- of foes of the past,
But he hears not the whooping abroad on the blast,
Nor the fall of the feet that are travelling fast.
Oh, why dost thou slumber, Kooroora?

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