Page:The Poems of Henry Kendall (1920).djvu/125

 At hopeless shadows flitting to and fro,

What time the east wind hums his darkest hymn,

And rains beat heavy on the ruined leaf.

There, while the autumn in the cedar trees

Sat cooped about by cloudy evergreens

The widow sojourned on the silent road,

And mutely faced the barren mound, and plucked

A straggling shrub from thence, and passed away,

Heart-broken, on to Sydney, where she took

Her passage in an English vessel bound

To London, for her home of other years.

At rest! Not near, with Sorrow on his grave,

And roses quickened into beauty—wrapt

In all the pathos of perennial bloom;

But far from these, beneath the fretful clay

Of lands within the lone perpetual cry

Of hermit plovers and the night-like oaks,

All moaning for the peace which never comes.

At rest! And she who sits and waits behind

Is in the shadows; but her faith is sure,

And one fine promise of the coming days

Is breaking, like a blessed morning, far

On hills that "slope through darkness up to God."

Andalusian gardens

I bring the rose and rue,

And leaves of subtle odour,

To weave a gift for you.

You'll know the reason wherefore

The sad is with the sweet;

My flowers may lie, as I would,

A carpet for your feet!

The heart—the heart is constant;

It holds its secret, Dear!

But often in the night time

I keep awake for fear.