Henry Kendall

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

Henry Kendall Poems

81. Ogyges 4/7/2010
82. News Of War 1/1/2004
83. Ned The Larrikin 4/7/2010
84. Narrara Creek 4/7/2010
85. Names Upon A Stone: (Inscribed To G. L. Fagan, Esq.) 4/7/2010
86. Mountains 4/7/2010
87. Mountain Moss 4/7/2010
88. Mount Erebus: (A Fragment) 4/7/2010
89. Moss On A Wall 4/7/2010
90. Morning In The Bush 4/7/2010
91. Mooni 4/7/2010
92. Merope 4/7/2010
93. Mary Rivers 4/7/2010
94. Manasseh 4/7/2010
95. Lurline (Inscribed To Madame Lucy Escott.) 4/7/2010
96. Lost In The Flood 4/7/2010
97. Lilith 4/7/2010
98. Leichhardt 4/7/2010
99. Leaves From Australian Forests (12 Sonnets) 4/7/2010
100. Kooroora 1/1/2004
101. Kingsborough 4/7/2010
102. King Saul At Gilboa 4/7/2010
103. Kiama Revisited 4/7/2010
104. Kiama 1/1/2004
105. John Dunmore Lang 4/7/2010
106. John Bede Polding 4/7/2010
107. Jim The Splitter 4/7/2010
108. James Lionel Michael 1/1/2004
109. Intaglio - Frank Denz 4/7/2010
110. In The Valley 4/7/2010
111. In The Depths Of A Forest 4/7/2010
112. In Memory Of John Fairfax 4/7/2010
113. In Memory Of Edward Butler 4/7/2010
114. In Memorium : Adam Lindsay Gordon 4/7/2010
115. In Memoriam~ -- Alice Fane Gunn Stenhouse 4/7/2010
116. In Memoriam — Nicol Drysdale Stenhouse 4/7/2010
117. In Memoriam -- A. L. Gordon 4/7/2010
118. Illa Creek 4/7/2010
119. Hymn Of Praise 4/7/2010
120. Hy-Brasil 1/4/2003
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

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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