Capturing the world with Photography, Painting and Drawing

Posts tagged “Henry Kendall

The River And The Hill – Poem by Henry Kendall

And they shook their sweetness out in their sleep
On the brink of that beautiful stream,
But it wandered along with a wearisome song
Like a lover that walks in a dream:
So the roses blew
When the winds went through,
In the moonlight so white and still;
But the river it beat
All night at the feet
Of a cold and flinty hill –
Of a hard and senseless hill!

I said, “We have often showered our loves
Upon something as dry as the dust;
And the faith that is crost, and the hearts that are lost –
Oh! how can we wittingly trust?
Like the stream which flows,
And wails as it goes.
Through the moonlight so white and still,
To beat and to beat
All night at the feet
Of a cold and flinty hill –
Of a hard and senseless hill?

“River, I stay where the sweet roses blow,
And drink of their pleasant perfumes!
Oh, why do you moan, in this wide world alone,
When so much affection here blooms?
The winds wax faint,
And the moon like a saint
Glides over the woodlands so white and still!
But you beat and you beat
All night at the feet
Of that cold and flinty hill –
Of that hard and senseless hill!”
The River And The Hill
Henry Kendall


Flow from the Mountain Spring : Poem “A Mountain Spring” – by Henry Kendall

Waters flow from the mountain spring Slievenamon Tipperary Nigel Borrington

Waters flow from the mountain spring
Slievenamon
Tipperary
Nigel Borrington

Peace hath an altar there. The sounding feet
Of thunder and the wildering wings of rain
Against fire-rifted summits flash and beat,
And through grey upper gorges swoop and strain;
But round that hallowed mountain-spring remain,
Year after year, the days of tender heat,
And gracious nights whose lips with flowers are sweet,
And filtered lights, and lutes of soft refrain.
A still, bright pool. To men I may not tell
The secrets that its heart of water knows,
The story of a loved and lost repose;
Yet this I say to cliff and close-leaved dell:
A fitful spirit haunts yon limpid well,
Whose likeness is the faithless face of Rose.

Henry Kendall


Flow from the Mountain Spring : Gallery

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