C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
Henry Kendall (18391882)
Orara
T
That seaward fights its way
Down crags of glitter, dells of gleam,
Is in the hills to-day.
Hangs where the wild lights wane—
The phantoms of a bygone storm,
A ghost of wind and rain.
Are on the shining meads;
The breeze is as a pleasant tune
Amongst the happy reeds.
That made the great caves ring,
And scarred the slope, and broke the spire,
Is a forgotten thing.
The wet hill-heads are bright;
And down the fall of fragrant grounds
The deep ways flame with light.
Past banks of tender fern;
A radiant brook, unknown to me,
Beyond its upper turn.
Whose home is in the green
Far-folded woods of fountains clear,
Where I have never been.
I often long to stand
Where you in soft, cool shades descend
From the untrodden land;
Till night is over all—
My eyes will never see the brook,
Or strange, sweet waterfall.
And toil, and cares that tire:
I cannot with my feeble feet
Climb after my desire.