Henry Kendall

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

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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:
The perfect verses, to the tune
   Of woodland music set,
As beautiful as afternoon,
   Remain unwritten yet.

[Hata Bildir]