Henry Kendall

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

Henry Kendall Poems

161. King Saul At Gilboa 4/7/2010
162. The Far Future 4/7/2010
163. Sydney Harbour 4/7/2010
164. Bells Beyond The Forest 4/7/2010
165. By The Sea 4/7/2010
166. Black Lizzie 4/7/2010
167. Arakoon 1/1/2004
168. Beyond Kerguelen 1/1/2004
169. Aileen 1/1/2004
170. Kooroora 1/1/2004
171. Araluen 1/4/2003
172. Wollongong 4/7/2010
173. Waiting And Wishing 4/7/2010
174. The Muse Of Australia 1/1/2004
175. After The Hunt 1/1/2004
176. From The Forests 4/7/2010
177. Footfalls 4/7/2010
178. Song Of The Shingle-Splitters 1/1/2004
179. A Spanish Love Song 1/1/2004
180. At Long Bay 4/7/2010
181. The Ivy On The Wall 4/7/2010
182. September In Australia 1/4/2003
183. Sutherland’s Grave 4/7/2010
184. On A Baby Buried By The Hawkesbury 4/7/2010
185. A Mountain Spring 1/1/2004
186. After Many Years 1/4/2003
187. Australian War Song 4/7/2010
188. The River And The Hill 1/1/2004
189. Passing Away 4/7/2010
190. At Dusk 4/7/2010
191. Song Of The Cattle Hunters 1/1/2004
192. A Day Of Dream 4/7/2010
193. Aboriginal Death Song 1/1/2004
194. Bell Birds 4/7/2010
195. Amongst The Roses 1/1/2004
196. The Last Of His Tribe 1/1/2004

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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

Araluen

Take this rose, and very gently place it on the tender, deep
Mosses where our little darling, Araluen, lies asleep.
Put the blossom close to baby -- kneel with me, my love, and pray;
We must leave the bird we've buried -- say good-bye to her to-day;
In the shadow of our trouble we must go to other lands,
And the flowers we have fostered will be left to other hands.
Other eyes will watch them growing -- other feet will softly tread
Where two hearts are nearly breaking, where so many

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