Генри Кендалл (Henry Kendall)

Leaves from Australian Forests (1869). At Dusk

   At dusk, like flowers that shun the day,
    Shy thoughts from dim recesses break,
   And plead for words I dare not say
      For your sweet sake.

   My early love! my first, my last!
    Mistakes have been that both must rue;
   But all the passion of the past
      Survives for you.

   The tender message Hope might send
    Sinks fainting at the lips of speech,
   For, are you lover—are you friend,
      That I would reach?

   How much to-night I'd give to win
    A banished peace—an old repose;
   But here I sit, and sigh, and sin
      When no one knows.

   The stern, the steadfast reticence,
    Which made the dearest phrases halt,
   And checked a first and finest sense,
      Was not my fault.

   I held my words because there grew
    About my life persistent pride;
   And you were loved, who never knew
      What love could hide!

   This purpose filled my soul like flame:
    To win you wealth and take the place
   Where care is not, nor any shame
      To vex your face.

   I said "Till then my heart must keep
    Its secrets safe and unconfest;"
   And days and nights unknown to sleep
      The vow attest.

   Yet, oh! my sweet, it seems so long
    Since you were near; and fates retard
   The sequel of a struggle strong,
      And life is hard—

   Too hard, when one is left alone
    To wrestle passion, never free
   To turn and say to you, "My own,
      Come home to me!"

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