Page:The Poems of Henry Kendall (1920).djvu/155

 All night long the flying water breaks upon the stubborn rocks—

Ooze-filled forelands burnt and blackened, smit and scarred, with lightning shocks;

But above the tender sea-thrift, but beyond the flowering fern,

Runs a little pathway westward—pathway quaint with turn on turn—

Westward trending, thus it leads to shelving shores and slopes of mist:

Sleeping shores, and glassy bays of green and gold and amethyst!

There tread gently—gently, pilgrim; there with thoughtful eyes look round;

Cross thy breast and bless the silence: lo, the place is holy ground!

Holy ground for ever, stranger! All the quiet silver lights

Dropping from the starry heavens through the soft Australian nights—

Dropping on those lone grave-grasses—come serene, unbroken, clear,

Like the love of God the Father, falling, falling, year by year!

Yea, and like a Voice supernal, there the daily wind doth blow

In the leaves above the sailor buried ninety years ago.

of low, dark, rocky coast,

Unknown to foot or feather!

A sea-voice moaning like a ghost;

And fits of fiery weather!

The flying Syrinx turned and sped

By dim, mysterious hollows,

Where night is black, and day is red,

And frost the fire-wind follows.

Strong, heavy footfalls in the wake

Came up with flights of water:

The gods were mournful for the sake

Of Ladon's lovely daughter.

For when she came to spike and spine,

Where reef and river gather,

Her feet were sore with shell and chine;

She could not travel farther.