Poem for To-day

Timaru Herald, Volume CXXXIX, Issue 20105, 11 May 1935, Page 12

Poem for To-day

THE MONTH OF MAY Lovers of true poetry still make their reverent pilgrimage to the memorial column erected ‘‘by the Cliffs by the Sea” in Waverley cemetery, In New South Wales, to pay homage to the memory of Henry Kendall, Australia’s foremost poet. One of his outstanding contributions to Australian verse is his delightful word picture of the months of the year. Kendall was born in 1841 near tTlladulla on the Illawatra coast of New South Wales, where his father Basil Kendall (the son of an Anglican clergyman who was one of the first pioneers of New Zealand), had settled after a roving career, during which he served under Admiral Lord Dundonald. Kendall’s mother was descended from Leonard McNally, a Dublin attorney of the period of Burke and Grattan. In 1851, Basil Kendall died leaving his widow with young children; these including Henry, the future poet, were cared for by relatives in Illawarra. At fourteeti Henry Was taken by his uncle, the owner of a whaling ship on a two years’ cruise over Southern Seas—recalled later in the picture poem ‘‘Beyond Kerguelen.” At the age of sixteen, Kendall was in Sydney, supporting his mother and sisters, and soon began to write what he called ‘‘crude but sometimes happy” verses for minor periodicals. He then met James Lionel Michael, a solicitor and fortunately a man of culture, who took him into his office and greatly encouraged Kendall’s literary bent and there in those circumstances of poverty and encouragement was laid the foundation of the career of Australia’s sweetest singer of verse.

Now sings a cool, Wand wind, where falls and flows The runnels by the grave of last year’s rose; Note, underneath the strong perennial leaves, The first slow voice of wintering torrent grieves; Now in the light like English August’s day Is seen the fair *. sweet chastened face of May. She is the daughter of the year who stands With Autumn’s last ridh offerings in her hands; Behind her gleam the ghost of April’s noon, Before her is the far, faint dawn of June; She Ungers where the dells and dewy leas Catch stormy sayings from the great bold seas; Her nightly raiment is the misty fold That zones her round with moon-light-coloured gold; And in the day she sheds, from shining wings, A tender heat that keeps the life in things. —Henry Kendall.