Page:The Poems of Henry Kendall (1920).djvu/350

 To Adam Lindsay Gordon, I who laid

Two years ago on Lionel Michael's grave

A tender leaf of my regard; yea I

Who culled a garland from the flowers of song

To place where Harpur sleeps; I, left alone,

The sad disciple of a shining band

Now gone—to Adam Lindsay Gordon's name

I dedicate these lines; and if 'tis true

That, past the darkness of the grave, the soul

Becomes omniscient, then the bard may stoop

From his high seat to take the offering,

And read it with a sigh for human friends,

In human bonds, and grey with human griefs.

And having wove and proffered this poor wreath;

I stand to-day as lone as he who saw

At nightfall through the glimmering moony mist,

The last of Arthur on the wailing mere,

And strained in vain to hear the going voice.

of grave, deep emphasis

Is in the woods to-night;

No sound of radiant day is this,

No cadence of the light.

Here in the fall and flights of leaves

Against grey widths of sea,

The spirit of the forests grieves

For lost Persephone.

The fair divinity that roves

Where many waters sing

Doth miss her daughter of the groves—

The golden-headed Spring.

She cannot find the shining hand

That once the rose caressed;

There is no blossom on the land,

No bird in last year's nest.