Henry Kendall

Early Poems (1859-70). James Lionel Michael

   Be his rest the rest he sought:
      Calm and deep.
   Let no wayward word or thought
      Vex his sleep.

   Peace—the peace that no man knows—
      Now remains
   Where the wasted woodwind blows,
      Wakes and wanes.

   Latter leaves, in Autumn's breath,
      White and sere,
   Sanctify the scholar's death,
      Lying here.

   Soft surprises of the sun—
      Swift, serene—
   O'er the mute grave-grasses run,
      Cold and green.

   Wet and cold the hillwinds moan;
      Let them rave!
   Love that takes a tender tone
      Lights his grave.

   He who knew the friendless face
      Sorrows shew,
   Often sought this quiet place
      Years ago.

   One, too apt to faint and fail,
      Loved to stray
   Here where water-shallows wail
      Day by day.

   Care that lays her heavy hand
      On the best,
   Bound him with an iron hand;
      Let him rest.

   Life, that flieth like a tune,
      Left his eyes,
   As an April afternoon
      Leaves the skies.

   Peace is best!  If life was hard
      Peace came next.
   Thus the scholar, thus the bard,
      Lies unvext.

   Safely housed at last from rack—
      Far from pain;
   Who would wish to have him back?
      Back again?

   Let the forms he loved so well
      Hover near;
   Shine of hill and shade of dell,
      Year by year.

   All the wilful waifs that make
      Beauty's face,
   Let them sojourn for his sake
      Round this place.

   Flying splendours, singing streams,
      Lutes and lights,
   May they be as happy dreams:
      Sounds and sights;

   So that Time to Love may say,
      "Wherefore weep?
   Sweet is sleep at close of day!
      Death is sleep."