Mooni

(Written in the shadow of 1872.)

Ah, to be by Mooni now,
Where the great dark hills of wonder,
Scarred with storm and cleft asunder
By the strong sword of the thunder,
Make a night on mornings brow!
Just to stand where Natures face is
Flushed with power in forest places
Where of God authentic trace is
Ah, to be by Mooni now!

Just to be by Moonis springs!
There to stand, the shining sharer
Of that larger life, and rarer
Beauty caught from beauty fairer
Than the human face of things!
Soul of mine from sin abhorrent
Fain would hide by flashing current,
Like a sister of the torrent,
Far away by Moonis springs.

He that is by Mooni now
Sees the water-sapphires gleaming
Where the River Spirit, dreaming,
Sleeps by fall and fountain streaming
Under lute of leaf and bough
Hears, where stamp of storm with stress is,
Psalms from unseen wildernesses
Deep amongst far hill-recesses
He that is by Mooni now.

Yea, for him by Moonis marge
Sings the yellow-haired September,
With the face the gods remember
When the ridge is burnt to ember,
And the dumb sea chains the barge!
Where the mount like molten brass is,
Down beneath fern-feathered passes,
Noonday dew in cool green grasses
Gleams on him by Moonis marge.

Who that dwells by Mooni yet,
Feels, in flowerful forest arches,
Smiting wings and breath that parches
Where strong Summers path of march is,
And the suns in thunder set?
Housed beneath the gracious kirtle
Of the shadowy water myrtle,
Winds may hiss with heat, and hurtle
He is safe by Mooni yet!

Days there were when he who sings
(Dumb so long through passions losses)
Stood where Moonis water crosses
Shining tracts of green-haired mosses,
Like a soul with radiant wings;
Then the psalm the wind rehearses
Then the song the stream disperses
Lent a beauty to his verses,
Who to-night of Mooni sings.

Ah, the theme the sad, grey theme!
Certain days are not above me,
Certain hearts have ceased to love me,
Certain fancies fail to move me
Like the affluent morning dream.
Head whereon the white is stealing,
Heart whose hurts are past all healing,
Where is now the first pure feeling?
Ah, the theme the sad, grey theme!

Sin and shame have left their trace!
He who mocks the mighty, gracious
Love of Christ, with eyes audacious,
Hunting after fires fallacious,
Wears the issue in his face.
Soul that flouted gift and Giver,
Like the broken Persian river,
Thou hast lost thy strength for ever!
Sin and shame have left their trace.

In the years that used to be,
When the large, supreme occasion
Brought the life of inspiration,
Like a gods transfiguration
Was the shining change in me.
Then, where Moonis glory glances,
Clear, diviner countenances
Beamed on me like blessed chances,
In the years that used to be.

Ah, the beauty of old ways!
Then the man who so resembled
Lords of light unstained, unhumbled,
Touched the skirts of Christ, nor trembled
At the grand benignant gaze!
Now he shrinks before the splendid
Face of Deity offended,
All the loveliness is ended!
All the beauty of old ways!

Still to be by Mooni cool
Where the water-blossoms glister,
And, by gleaming vale and vista,
Sits the English Aprils sister
Soft and sweet and wonderful.
Just to rest beyond the burning
Outer world its sneers and spurning
Ah! my heart my heart is yearning
Still to be by Mooni cool!

Now, by Moonis fair hill heads,
Lo, the gold green lights are glowing,
Where, because no wind is blowing,
Fancy hears the flowers growing
In the herby watersheds!
Faint it is the sound of thunder
From the torrents far thereunder,
Where the meeting mountains ponder
Now, by Moonis fair hill heads.

Just to be where Mooni is,
Even where the fierce fall races
Down august, unfathomed places,
Where of sun or moon no trace is,
And the streams of shadows hiss!
Have I not an ample reason
So to long for sick of treason
Something of the grand old season,
Just to be where Mooni is?

Henry Kendall

Henry Kendall was an Australian poet born on April 18, 1839, known for his lyrical and descriptive poetry reflecting the natural world and the colonial experience of Australia. He faced personal and financial difficulties throughout his life, which deeply influenced his works. His poetry collections include 'Leaves from Australian Forests' and 'Songs from the Mountains'. Kendall passed away on August 1, 1882, leaving a lasting impact on Australian literature.

Henry Kendall

Eighteen Hundred and Sixty-Four

Henry Kendall, Simple Poetry

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Henry Kendall, Simple Poetry

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Heath from the Highlands

Henry Kendall, Simple Poetry

English

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We stood by the window and hearkened
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The Voice in the Wild Oak

(Written in the shadow of 1872.)


Twelve years ago, when I could face
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Dark widowed sister of the grove!
Twelve wasted years ago.

But youth was then too young to find
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To that superlative degree
That I would rather seek, than men,
Wild fellowship with thee!

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Is one whose hair was shot with grey
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