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
Best Poem of Henry Kendall

Aboriginal Death Song

Feet of the flying, and fierce
Tops of the sharp-headed spear,
Hard by the thickets that pierce,
Lo! they are nimble and near.
Women are we, and the wives
Strong Arrawatta hath won;
Weary because of our lives,
Sick of the face of the sun.

Koola, our love and our light,
What have they done unto you?
Man of the star-reaching sight,
Dipped in the fire and the dew.

Black-headed snakes in the grass
Struck at the fleet-footed lord—
Still is his voice at the pass,
Soundless his step at the ford.

Far by the ...

Read the full of Aboriginal Death Song

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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