Page:The Poems of Henry Kendall (1920).djvu/352

 But often in the lonely space

When night is on the land,

I dream of a departed face—

A gracious, vanished hand.

And when the solemn waters roll

Against the outer steep,

I see a great, benignant soul

Beside me in my sleep.

Yea, while the frost is on the ways

With barren banks austere,

The friend I knew in other days

Is often very near.

I do not hear a single tone;

But where this brother gleams,

The elders of the seasons flown

Are with me in my dreams.

The saintly face of Stenhouse turns—

His kind old eyes I see;

And Pell and Ridley from their urns

Arise and look at me.

By Butler's side the lights reveal

The father of his fold,

I start from sleep in tears, and feel

That I am growing old.

Where Edward Butler sleeps, the wave

Is hardly ever heard;

But now the leaves above his grave

By August's songs are stirred.

The slope beyond is green and still,

And in my dreams I dream

The hill is like an Irish hill

Beside an Irish stream.