Page:The Poems of Henry Kendall (1920).djvu/351

 Here, where this strange Demeter weeps—

This large, sad life unseen—

Where July's strong, wild torrent leaps

The wet hill-heads between,

I sit and listen to the grief,

The high, supreme distress,

Which sobs above the fallen leaf

Like human tenderness!

Where sighs the sedge and moans the marsh,

The hermit plover calls;

The voice of straitened streams is harsh

By windy mountain walls;

There is no gleam upon the hills

Of last October's wings;

The shining lady of the rills

Is with forgotten things.

Now where the land's worn face is grey

And storm is on the wave,

What flower is left to bear away

To Edward Butler's grave?

What tender rose of song is here

That I may pluck and send

Across the hills and seas austere

To my lamented friend?

There is no blossom left at all;

But this white winter leaf,

Whose glad green life is past recall,

Is token of my grief.

Where love is tending growths of grace,

The first-born of the Spring,

Perhaps there may be found a place

For my pale offering.

For this heroic Irish heart

We miss so much to-day,

Whose life was of our lives a part,

What words have I to say?

Because I know the noble woe

That shrinks beneath: the touch—

The pain of brothers stricken low—

I will not say too much.